Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Poet Near the End of the Middle of the World

These many, daily, minor
Variations only you

Know, only words remember—
Fading prayer flags on the line

Strung out by the calendar
For winds to read them better—

How much blur can you gather
Before all the words are gone,

Your flags just shredded feathers?
Moonlight blankets white letters.

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