Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

Renée Sigel

White Heat

sheer white heat
folding walls like memoirs
in
extracts of crystals
recounting poignant
tales of
hourglass chores;
glass castled motherhood
locked in the broomcloset
by the telling
of the sunrise
against the dust
of abhorrance and routine.
timed and chimely tick-tocked
ingenuity reached
out and hugged a painted palm
against your forgotten childhood
leaving the imprint thumbless
dropping memories
to the sidewalk, candywrappers
crunched by haste and heeled indifference
washed up as lint hung out to dry
against the mirror of someone else’s death.
Your laughter is too young to die…

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