Notes from the Vanishing World
Our unborn baby was a painting
begun in another lifetime.
Miles of plum trees sunlight-wet.
Wild horses wandering the rows,
eyes wide-set and black,
their faces masks.
Alone with my easel,
there is no orchard–
just fog in the shape
of an empty field.
Sky electric with thunderheads,
I imagine god’s heart
shot from every angle.
Paint quickly,
before we disappear again–
Too transparent to move,
the other-world foal,
radiant, stares back.
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