The 27

Ripping, roaring wind

ravaging cheek bones, ruffling

threadbare branches, conductor of droplets.

A rouged face remains, solitary;

receptacle of life, rain-coat battle-worn,

Tattered.

Rendered inert by recondite

thoughts, machinations, memories,

they nearly let it slip by.

At a moment’s notice, the cogs

stop whirring, focus returns, regained perspective;

Clawed back from the brink, it arrives:

The 27.

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