Tuesday, November 1, 2011


No concept so elusive
As probably. Every breath
At the edge of this lake of saints
Raised up for generations
To believe the end is near
Is probably not my last.
Probably I will forget

This crushed air, this atmosphere,
This deeply moving cloud bank
Confusing snowflakes with waves
Down uncertain surfaces,
Corrugated green copper
Water roofing shallows
Where probably something lives.

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