Later Star, Late Blackness

By | 1 November 2014

Linden shadows toss the room. An old creosote. Or bland window. Now against the stairs. To a place one passage is drawn as a figure of stillness. The night is thinking, as a lark scars the sky bound sleek into sun’s hush. O darling. O, eridanius. No, the furthest river does not recognize us.

 


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