THIS POCKET PLACE
I am wandering again - sullen
and alone in a disparate morning
light made of winter sparrows and
the scat-song of icy water. My head
is down, but only to see the light I
imagine instead of the light I see.
A fencepost ties the land to where
I am - this is Foggy Lane, this is
Carnal Village. Now - so all at once -
there are so many things around; every
new move becomes a sudden description.
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