Departures: Chapter One

Morning's mirage, disdainful & calm
as a mirror,

held the shorn bush that yesterday
flourished,

now lopped canes & a scant spitfall
of remnance,

confetti trampled in the clefts
of vanishing deer.

To touch its truth I punched my fist
into the chopped molest,

the boscage—withdrew my red sleeve.
Abstract that.

READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM