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in my net
by Evee Huervana

I cast my somber trap
a tattered old net
once more this morning
toward the top of the acasia tree
just as the sun begins
to wake at the eastern
slope of my day.

I hope to catch that birdsong
that nightly haunts the floating dust
in my room—circling and circling
but not in a merry dance
commencing at twilight
promising to end only when my heart
stops its beating.

The purple notes touch
each blanket thread
on my melancholy bed
kiss each carpet flint covering
this chafed bedroom floor
they seep within every pinhole in my skin
and puncture every vein.

Twilight soon slides to midnight
and these notes perforate my eyelids
driving away portraits
of giggling green leaves
forcing out echoes of a phantom laugh
the only one I nurse
the only one I utter.

The net I toss up every day
and I only drag it down
as soon as the sun sinks
at the deep valley
but no birdsong here
I can stare or listen, stare or listen
for all eternity—
but not a hint of a note.

Just the heap of fallen leaves
a metaphor of old dreams
mounding in the middle
        yellowing
           browning
              waiting
for their inevitable decay.

A blending with the elements.
A blending with clay.

© Evee Huervana

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