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going

of worth
I have no season
no story left to tell
of roads I walked –
of lives beyond the veil
of streets
unnamed to history
a touch
recalls me still
where all I’ve known
of loving is revealed
into the page
where shadows fall
night birds weep and storm
into the swell where black
the locust swarm
with memory
of where I lay
and secrets I embraced
flannel sheets
are forests wrapped in lace
as once I was
remembered me
for reasons I’m not sure
kept within the circles
ancient sight
mystery of passion –
my wilderness afire
wings are raised
immortal to the night

. . .

Author’s Note: I’ve spent many a day
in search of an image for this, and have none to
show.  Only this.  Close your eyes – yes, that’s
the one.

. . .

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