Poem and Photo by James Owens
A few old buildings among the fallow fields
As if the sun were
the shadow of an abyss
that would deepen
the horizon in us,

this dying afternoon
soaks the walls
in coppery light.
The ivy glimmers and thinks

when a breeze in the trap
of vines seeks words
like shards of glass.
Flying from a roof,

a hoarse crow
in a single wingbeat
paints our names’ return
into the mouth of the earth 

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