In the journal of memory, no corners

folded down & no penciled marks
strayed to note, nothing put down,

no sentence for anything, not
a single solitary word, but there

instead find the page a field
before harvest in this somewhere

not far from where we stay & keep
staying, or find that window

in any hour & how we turned
to face whatever weather

asked of the trees, faced wind
-ward or into the way light

seemed to hold on to the news
we wore in layers.

 

 

 

 

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