by Renwick Berchild

She releases a shiver,
A sight unclean.

She runs
For the headland, willing to toss herself
To gods.

To visions, that grab at her
Without consent.

Cut too short.
She stumbles
Like a lamb,
Though she is old.

A browned leaf
In hostile wind.

She bends back.
She cracks.

She does not break.

But tumbles.


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