North Star
The North Star is
where it wants to be,
never seen. This
is an apple yard,
where passersby
pick the ripened fruit,
leave nibbled cores
to break on ground
as mangy foxes
scavenge on truth.
black stick
letters on a white wall.
Vines stripped, laid
bare, green grapes
bereft of wrath stolen
for wine,
drained, re-labelled,
never the same.
Flies drill all
the way into a new world,
feed on the mushy
flesh that’s left.
The earth seeks to
bury it alive,
offers it the sanctuary
it has lost.
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