never
The clouds’ disintegrating script
spells out the
word squander.
Tree shadows
lie down in the field.
Clipped to a
grass blade’s underside,
a crisp green
grasshopper
weighs down the
tip,
swaying between
birth and death.
I’ll think of
him as we clink
glasses with
the guests,
eating olives
as the sun goes down.
poem by:
Chase Twichell
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