Mourning Doves

Two mourning doves inspect the mulch I tossed
across the ghost roots of an apple tree
to hide the scar and reckon with the lost

and longed-for body, with the shade that crossed
my summer grass, a grazing prophesy.
Two mourning doves inspect the mulch I tossed

into an ugly hole. It would have cost
me more to wait for a catastrophe,
to hide the scar and reckon with a lost

gazebo or a kitchen porch embossed
in tangled screens. I paid the woodman’s fee.
Two mourning doves inspect the mulch I tossed

exactly where I cut my losses. Frost
and thaw will cycle more reliably
to hide the scar. I’ll reckon with a lost

arcade, where now I wander albatrosssed
in sunlight, shadowed by a memory.
Two mourning doves inspect the mulch I tossed
to hide a scar and reckon with the lost.

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