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reflected

like a face in the

mirror. like a face looking

back. but how

is that his look? how

are those his eyes

and cheeks and not a woman

bright under

vernal sun. she lies

by a crossroads. today

and tomorrow. come

far and far, and still far to

go before reaching

a peaceful river

and free

to sail away.

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philosophers

swallow panic?

wonder about ill-fated circumstance

when it’s more satisfying to paint

fields of bluebells?

we’re always angry with the

sky. but is that the sky’s fault?

and when longboats

sink into the sea,

when birds nest in smoke, is

that the time for us bow towards

the east with the grace

of eagles?