Sorry should know better, but sorry’s only

what it can be, these days & every day,
does its best, shouldering every little

more. In a practice room of, a boy keeps
time, sings an hour away. In a room sun

-washed with, a woman draws what might
otherwise be unseen. In that empty

lot where once a building collapsed, now
a field of flowers reclaim all that, gentle,

lead sorry back to sorrow, bow their heads,
something not unlike prayer. These are

paths to the heart we can sometimes find
our way back to, traceable, that near-alluvial

valley we let every apology wash against,
our bodies’ record of terrain, of relief.

 

 

 

 

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