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had wanted to talk, break the spell. The air

was still. I cleared my throat and a moon rose,

on the veranda. The minutes had flown, slow

in the gloaming, as swallows and the spirit


in my throat rose as cigarette smoke

to the upper-most, skies (sorrow, I know

why it is; so, a score to the wrist. It

sat.) from the gut, aglow, the night paused. I saw

a silhouette. I shall spend (I felt) some

happiness upon this ponderous

night:  light, shadow; the hurt is, exquisite.

Isn’t it.



I wandered down to the water. The night

was colder. I threw stones on the moon

that danced about the water. I knew

for sure (I thought) you would not come,

you would not come.


12 January 2016

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