Sunday, September 18, 2016


light coming into fog above shadowed plane of ridge

sound of birds calling from branches across from it

past in terms of it since present and future, other

running your finger over, “pricked“ as if by thorns

as it travels from the mirror's glassy depth before

which sense never repeats, water surface in a glass

grey whiteness of fog against top of shadowed ridge

white lines of waves breaking into channel below it

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