Thinking in October

August 16, 2010
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what would you take
of shade

of lakes
of frost

of plains
of rain

of music
of movement

(time is grinding
your final dagger)

what can you say you know
not air at the peak
of a mountain, not ants
marching beat
in bone, not sweet spring
waters, untouched by dreamers

(the fabled passing can be gleaned
from what precedes it)

when will you step off the edge
of this world, vanishing
through that muted cadence?





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