Center of Nothing

Marina Burandt

even the dustiest little hamlets
offer a glowing window,
brandywine to be poured,
leaving sticky residue on a scrubbed table

peering from between dripping branches
neither coming nor going 
I have nothing but time.
Fairy rings and natural burial,
auric energy hovering just above the forest floor

mosses and lichens conceal me
and ebb upward toward my closing eyes.

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