Trample Thistle Down


"Trample thistles down with sneers"

she says with laughs of falling beach glass


so I spin syllables of bless

while trotting on heels worn like hooves


"Every loss an open plain of salt grass chance"

she chuckles with eyes of morning meadow webs


so I twist the force of punch and turn to dance

smooth spins of resistance seem acceptance


Vive la France, vive la resístance! vive…

Oui Monsieur, möchten Sie einen Kaffee?


then another silent august death

hard to dance boxed under falling earth


More thistles for bare feet to dance upon...

I can almost hear her laugh at night.

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