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Few Things are Quiet

Few things are quiet


as night snow:

there is the uninvited

past, sharp and  

certain as geometry

when geese fly;

there is age coming in slow

on a stinging tide;

there is sleep spinning

thin as blown glass.


All things snow remain

silent here;  cars slip

inaudibly to the shoulder,

children doze, bedded

in the back seat

like sled dogs.


Down at the lake,

power went out

days ago; behind curtains

candles are lit, flashlights

doubling in the downstairs

mirror. Belly to back,


your damp breath

lies on my feathered

nape; like night snow,

you fall everywhere,

mute, ubiquitous.

Few things are quiet

as your still regard.


Category: My articles | Added by: Kristin (03.28.2013)
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