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Poetry

Of a misty, low-sky morning pressed
——–upon the north sound islands there, just
beyond our glassy cove, one might draw
——–yet another sip from the steaming
mug and find that, yes, there is so little
——–to be known, so much to be supposed.
There beyond the concrete breakwater,
——–the seiner’s skiff begins drawing out
the unwieldy net, its tenders all
——–but indiscernible as they toil
at the stern, even as their modest
——–vessel skims aloft a gray abyss.
Just now I hear, from crowded branches
——–overhead, the starlings returning
to their habitual questioning.
——–I, too, resume my late morning mull—
not always the same puzzlements, not
——–exactly, but in kind more or less
approximate. From where I puzzle,
——–every clarity succumbs again
to appalling generosity.
——–Each brittle dogma softens in the mist
to far more sympathetic prospect


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