Pan with Pomegranate

•07/ A confusion of days— the reality shifts to a different time, a different “now” moment: pen in hand, staining the paper with words, as pomegranate pulp blurring across the ancient god’s face, Pan drowsy in the shadows of an autumnal pine, eyes drooping from midafternoon, his countenance of a teenage boy—contrasting with the thin layer of ice and rime outside my window, coating a clutch of pines caught between the broken water lines of the subdivision’s sprinkler system—
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