A clear burning man in mourning light came for what I couldn’t fathom. Now the hill brow stands into the first shafts, after an evening of rain and a night of blind fumbling. A question to greet the day? A lighthouse there beyond its crown, a point out at the end where the punctuation wavers and rights itself?
And still the spray comes up one side and coats me, and traces the moving edges of my form briefly, like light, before it escapes me.
And still the spray comes up one side and coats me, and traces the moving edges of my form briefly, like light, before it escapes me.
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