The Sky over Jackson
Richard Boada

Alone with the hydrangeas
purchased at the grocery store in Midtown
Jackson and unevenly planted in the clay,
my body was once like that ecosystem
alight with invertebrates, and I would
become one, a vessel of soft tissue reddened
and enlightened.  I look through a sequence
of trees, black limbs mossed and dewy
for the galaxy undone. I’m bringing
my bony knots into thanksgiving for the waxing
night lolls. I don’t have what it takes
to ask a meaningful question
of its circumference or grace. 

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