December Field
stragglers in a mouth of strangled grass.
the field itself a giant maw
of basketwork, ice, and all the old loves.
dregs of sepals
suffer spots of wan snow posing as ants.
among the flaxen glacé cross-stitches,
a little cosmos wears grim cheeks--
a wormwood rouge of nosegays, orts, rose hips,
limp spiderwebs and beetle crusts,
all of them, at once, whipped by a thistle.
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