The Peach Tree Came Clawing

Finally having ivy-seized
the foreign hand
I placed the clam-tub
full of black-air beside
the only trembling onyx-vein, and
in the background, which stemmed the storm
a hand has not turned away,
darkness more icy
than rain—which was dissolved
in hair, and
since then, it’s become soft, smooth,
rummaged with a track of tuft
buried under a mound, beside
a mountain of sand, that had
in the heart amassed arrival
with a choke of your voice—
pushed July in with a short
circuit; now everything becoming
carried outdoors, paw
footprints on tiles,
hardened mud, chipping,
the fiber of your cross,
pulp-rotten, old
beams crushed, a skull-smile
wheeled forward, an appearance
of maroon dawn reflections, between
blood-petals, the peach tree came down
clawing.

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