Aug 212011
In twilight the river came
Sighing, sweeping, fresh.

Stuttering dawn flared palely,
With just enough wick to scritch 

Midnight waters into day, and usher them
Into glassy existence once again;

Troughs and shadows among the gems
Astound the verdant vertices. . . .

Then dying afternoon struck heightened whites
From the pulsing wave, over and over--

Too bright to look at, too hot
To sit in the shade, feet in the water. . . .

Now night's arriving eyelid seals the river
All-at-once in nothingness.

I am here, now, without it.
Sighing, sweeping, fresh.

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