lxxii.

it fell off of my desk,

the broken stems,
the dirt on the carpet
the sharp scent of greenery

--I smell it from the doorway

---

the frame creaks against the sill,
the imprint of the wind

falls along the sides of this building
whips into the circle,
it rises, rushing and empty
up the verge

through the dark in the needles,
cut by the gate