Wednesday, October 28, 2020

GUSTS, Number 32, Fall/Winter 2020

every tide
etches its own screed
upon the sand
here and there, traces
of someone else's ashes


a string
of shabby prayer flags
in the ditch
snowflakes mending edges
where hope used to be


saucers of ice
spin their way downriver . . .
we are honed
until nothing remains except
the roundness of memory

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