A third note.

Elm trees with hawk nests for fingers.

Red tailed hawks who sound like blue jays.

A ghost sitting in the sun, drinking from the river.

Twilight told me its true name

But I forgot to listen.

I was too busy thinking of you,

Tying my boots to resemble your hair.

And there was an empty bottle of sweet wine.

But now it’s just a fly coffin.

Six or so, 

Struggling to lift their grape drenched wings.

Failing.

They’ll die in there

While this place brings me alive. 

And breaks me to pieces,

Pieces of pie 

Not unlike those made fresh in town. 

By a man named L.T.

Who owns the Chuck Wagon

And a pair of bushy white handlebars

Over his mouth.

Yesterday he offered to make me a patty melt

With a voice that sounded how caramel tastes.

I left a note for you on the table.

It ended up in a cup of cherry sprite.

Sorry.

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