Halfway Through a Keyhole

The smallness of a hand
enter you. Should be a lock
on the dawn. The rabbit bent
under the moon like a knuckle
in your mind. Good morning,
three a.m.  Frost on leaves,
who knew you could embroider
diamonds?  Rare headlights
seen on the small mountain
across, no different than
airport lights, but going
down, down:
a late drinker
or early worker.
Dark imagination
will have to split
the difference.


2 thoughts on “Halfway Through a Keyhole

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