Missing Lime-Sliced Smile

That kind of calm
does not exist.

The impermanent
missile, the smile
of a day, washes away.

A simile for miss.

The missed target,
the missing of a familiar
blessedness, sacred seed
bleeding on the mouth
to mark that sort of peace.

Pieces of a prospect
seep through and charge
into the tidal upsurge,
a dialed mind that never
ends.

In the desert, that kind
of calm does not exist.

Sticks, mulch, rest.
Impermanent missiles
in the day’s trajectory.

The wash of that
contentedness,
a limed-sliced smile.

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