Sonnet Seth Copeland Yours is the face of the mountains at dusk shadowcast in muted, cooled granite tones vaporing into the air the pricked musk of mesquite and oak, swathing the grim bones of yesterday’s genocides and red wars into cradles of burnt past, smoked vague and harsh in our minds’ congealed reservoirs. I am waters broken, truth to renege, the blunt cleavage of boulders broken over the bleeding weeds of dried prairie. In shades you stir, just barely awoken, before sage balm mutes you to reverie. And as the amber disc dÊtentes for dawn, I pool on your rock in fitful bullaun.
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