four months out from a sunflower bloom.
somewhere outside kyiv is a clearing, budding
sunflowers poke through the snow; turgid,
a burned-out BTR rests its hull against the earth.
all falling through my dreaming.
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hands fumble blindly, clutching onto everything they touch, desperately testing.
anything as long as it’s sharp.
the idea of the hourglass, too full of sand – why does it have to be so full? – a thought that has crashed through reality, shattering sanity.
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