Cameron Morse

Garden mums unpack parcels of yellow
petals, opening jaundiced eyeballs

on a mid-September morning. Southwestern
wind rummages through the oak leaves

for a lost object, the daystar, perhaps,
smothered in oak leaves, or the wayward

cricket heard chirping in the furnace room
while we tossed in bed. In the cross-examination

of sunrise, blurred shadows and soft light,
it’s impossible to locate the original source

of any testimony, no matter how long one sits
and examines the evidence of the senses.

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