Ahora,
our halos
are hung out
like crisp white
flags from
sunken bunkers.

Never meant
to make my bed
such a battlement.

They
said the going
would be slow,
despacio, distinct
in its absence
of knowing.

Shadows
of redwoods.

In return,
an auspice
spit out by the ocean.

 

-By Kaleb Worst, Heart Beat

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