Wednesday, January 03, 2007


Death; the spector,
shadows equally my logic and emotion.

Not so much the end of all things as the end of me.

Warm fire,
from my chair a view of the moon through branches.

In the morning I will wake
and find the turn row.

Frost under my feet.

I breathe; I am; I will be,
until the future is present continuous.

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