Digging

That summer doesn’t
haunt my dreams; what’s worse is that
I almost can’t remember it at all.
It’s a heavy, empty patch of longing,
tangled, vining regret. At the center is
just the endless gnawing heartache of
not enough,
never enough.
Seamus, I have broken fallow fields but
this
is tougher ground to sink my spade into.

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