in a heap of silence

by Steven J. Serafiani

deep in your Ashram, floor
board pose, a
dawn’s thought slips by like
smoke; an
elders berry sage and you see
what could have been with
the wyomin woman- the
one with a Georgia accent and
those spaces, those wide open
spaces you could’ve roamed.
bottle cap foil trash down gulch-
the threaded gullet of
barroom brawl what could
have beens.

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