Lignin


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We sit
for hours,
neither rigid
nor relaxed,
chiselling
someplace new
between the two.
 

The Pinot and their
adolescent nonsense
planes knotty pine;
curled shavings of
splintered months
wisping the floor.
 

You summon me
above a warm grain
and vanilla flickers;
a mute voice held
in a familiar gaze –
 

We did this
 
 

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