Saturday, January 30, 2010

3 of N of X





your step slows,

now each toe's dug deliberately in the sand,
apprehensive-- yes,
and yet your mind does not linger there

for these thoughts which sweep past your mind's eye;
as though blown-in
by the afternoon's gust (the leading edge

of a regularly anticipated evening wind,
having crossed the ocean's expanse
has begun to arrive;

launched off continents far to the west, beyond the waning sun,
well beyond the horizon's edge, where it's still day
or otherwise it might already be tomorrow there by now)

have been milling about in your head, sculpting forms,
pliable as they may be;

such are the shapes one sees in clouds
instants before they morph or are no longer clear;

this, for a length of time;
you don’t know how long; you have been
strolling here alone;


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