-oh. is that so?
a nod in the dying mellow.
two figures, a shadow
and silence.
-where do you think we are?
and his voice
like the bark
hasn't.
nor will it mulch
the wilted daisies
melting in the cornhusk vase
on a table at dusk
with two figures, their stares,
a hunch.
-mother, we've eloped.
and an
-oh...?
that pauses until dawn.
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