Timothy Pilgrim

Who’s counting

Number’s up, six feet, round clock
turned empty, work week,
love, ticked down. Must plant wire,

coiled strands dark in soil,
taking root, rusted gold,
sharpened barbs eager to grow.

Fence plot with kale,
four joined rows bristling out
weasels, rats, your memory, cats —

black ones, tails eleven inches,
sleek, white females,
claws measuring twelve.

No absolution

If you think you're beaten,
you are. Again. Even though

you took him back.
Believe he will change,

he won't. Your boat, oar,
his stroke. Lost love,

lost life, lost raft.
Deep ocean, last rites.

Timothy Pilgrim is a U.S. Pacific Northwest poet with several hundred acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, San Pedro River Review, Windsor Review, Third Wednesday, Cirque, Clover, A Literary Rag, Otoliths and Toasted Cheese. He is the author of Mapping Water (Flying Trout Press, 2016). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.
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