baucis and philemon

Laura Hudson

growing like the tines of
a crystal outward in crooked rays
pointing at a distant light like
hands of a chiming clock

forever and orphean time moves,
reconstituting distance and glancing
absently to the moment before. we
have charmed our way into hell and
habits, everything sacrificed to
the sin of memory.

line thinned between earth and sky,
the fluid horizon of
women who became trees,
men who became women
and gods who could not cease
becoming men.

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