Tired of the Inevitable Deaths of Smallish Dragons

she chalks their wings in darkest hour
-glass green, splendid in their falling.

They’re sprawling loose and long and
strong in this bright sky, and she can

see tiny talons, teeth. Truth. The wild
wild proof and promise of a finer life

and all its trappings. Saffron soulful
eyes. A wink of embered smile.

In November, we poem. And poem and poem. 


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