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Poetry

Here—the terminus from which he begins.

The road, tilted like a tipped-up tile,
Points to those in trees pulling down branches.

Wind rucks and buckles the cloak-covered path.

Soon enough the day will be a ruin.
Soon the crisp half-light of dusk will give way
To the salt-light of stars, a gibbous moon.

Although foretold, the future is the past:
A leaden, inert matter-of-factness.

His retinue approaches like a storm:
Rain pent up. Lightning that blinds us for now.

His afterimage is that of a ghost.

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