Poetry
1 min
He Tells Me He Loves Another
Shutta Crum
The waters of the creek are tannin suffused.
I can't see the bottom—and on the shore
there's a hole opening, my feet are sliding in.
Leaves twist in the sluggish current,
not knowing which way to go.
When I turn to you, I see you have already gone
into that lone cerebral country
where landscape is logical and merciless.
You will trample over the precisely laid-out fields
of your mind until you've found a few weedy words
to yank out—roots and all, to offer me.
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