Walking at Dusk in Early Winter

I have slept through the first snow, the grass and the dust gone. A day lost, an eon?

Tides of the old inland silence return, pines under sail,

messages blinking on the phone,

the black box of my name sinking beneath the floes.

I do not know my food.

My skin has become a beautiful ear watching

birches scrubbed by light whales loved.

-Mike MacMahon

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