I dug a hole in the ground to bury my doubts
near thin yellow bushes that die after five years.
Standing over my open pit, I shout questions.
They settle. I hear no response and cover them.
My fears are ten feet away, interred last weekend,
where the weeds are dense, bramble with long silver thorns.
I start to stack my sorrows for next week’s labor
beside brittle vines choking the memory stone.
Wayne L. Miller is a writer and poet from Northern New Jersey. His recent work has been published in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow 6, Turtle Island Quarterly, and the [Insert Coin Here] anthology of Kind of a Hurricane Press. A piece is forthcoming in the Cadavre Exquis Anthology of Medusa’s Laugh Press.
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