It doesn’t matter whether
it’s a spell or a poem,
these things we scatter across
the roads that run around
our minds left there
where the branch is broken,
the windshield’s feathered
impact site, a plume of steam,
a stack of stones, shapes spent
within this witness, branches
tied in squares or triangles,
a circle of salt or soot.
The hawk that watches
through your window,
the whiskey soaked oath.
It’s magic that you make
just being you right now.
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