Guilt

You said, the water will be slave
to nothing. The rain heard
first, burning in the woods,
then its tambourine in the gutter.

You stayed out standing
too long. The sins of perfection
gluing riff-raff down to the driveway.
By your feet, a leaf got dappled,
damp, damper.

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This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , by A. Miller. Bookmark the permalink.

About A. Miller

ALEX MILLER JR. is a staff writer for The Curator and the co-author of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems written in dialogue with Luke Irwin. His essays and poems have appeared in The Conversation, Transpositions, Pif, The Curator, The Denver Syntax, Lake Effect, and ken*again. He is an adjunct professor of Western literature at Gordon College in Wenham, Mass., and high school English and Rhetoric teacher. He lives in Beverly, Mass. You can follow him on Twitter: @miller_jr.

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