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(of loss)

every night the heaving of breaking bones,
there’s a moth with a broken wing and it beats endlessly in your chest.
frail fingers’ hold to hope like spider silk,
a baby bluebird with crooked feathers looking to the sky.
falling through the cracks of hope in endless dusk and dawn,
a body curled up on its own in the ferns,
sinking through the trampled soil and torn up roots.