Tempo wind and tree branch

by Marisa Siegel

What-if maybe could fated, be-different, fair, ruined fault-line turned out but should, soul-mated wish nightmare numbers, corners and lots. Designed to get rid of,

Owned and buried not a drawer not a box not an urn but a harmless moon of material, sent out. Standing on top of the circle looking down, glimpse of what,

Centuries spent listening rain-water falling, tempo wind and tree branch. A gun goes off in familiar territory, literally of course, the sky opens up soothes the concrete.

Against odds, butterfly. The ripples are endless and inevitable.

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