Exit Wounds
“It’s out, out, one’s going.” —Robert Creeley
A driftwood angel washed out
of the arroyo, anything green
gone into the sun.
A stars-and-stripes butterfly
decal departs in finished ambiguity
in the rear window of an old Ford pickup.
Fingers bent, then extended,
everything is edges, as the difference
between hand and mirror, regret
before it bleeds into dread,
ice cube and water.
Perhaps a page is torn
or missing here or there,
but the story still plays out
its diaspora of words.
A sign on an abandoned shack
says OPEN.
from Autumn Sky Poetry 19 — by Stephen Bunch
photo by Dianne Wilson
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