Birches in Shadow
silver-vert licorice
so fine it snares
a few twinkles of platinum,
cowl of branches,
bulbous with dusk,
mages, tatterdemalions
scrolled in the bark,
redolent and obvious
of insubstantial absinthe,
seductors bound
to haunt ivory cinders,
neither burnt nor regal,
draping love’s bones.
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