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White Twigs
by Zhalih Mickunas

If I put my heart into the ground,
it would burst a spring for these roots.
But there won't be a burial for me.
I will die upheld, like a nest
in the upturned knuckles
and clutches of branch.
I'll blend into the freckled leaves,
and in late autumn
when the wind goes,
there I'll be,
my bones, white twigs
belonging to the trees.













 

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