It is as if the proximity
embarrasses you. Fat and
flushed, you duck behind
oaks dreading your next
appearance: a far-off night
peppered with stars
snickering at our realization
that twenty years slithered
through our fingers. Look
at this earth. What scars aren’t
knifed into its skin by an impatient
God, we gouge with our own
impudent hands. Embarrassed.
Scatter your light through
the leaning oaks in twenty years,
and I will show you embarrassed.

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