Proposal

— Casey FitzSimons

The sun, its spears
aimed at me through the leaves.
The burnished meadow, a guillotine,
slides menacingly towards me.

Cawing, chaff- filled air
plucks at my skin.
And you of welling eyes—arrested
on the steps beside me.

Vertigo, this fear—
offering forth
our tender, wanting present
into future’s clumsy hands.

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