You're always friendly and maybe
Tyson is on the floor, all brown
and warm
I'm on the top stair
the wooden stairs, oak,
with knots from past lives.
Sometimes we end the stairs in joy.
Mary Oliver buried her kitten.
I bury the past
with its mossy overgrowth
covering my apartment door,
its thrones without dictators,
no kings or queens
but serfs in the field.
My face turns to the sun to feel it
while I knead bread.
But for now I climb the stairs.
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