augury doggerel

Sunday, March 03, 2002


The woman on the hill, long white hair, looking through clouds, has seen eighty years today and won't see many more. I am following, as always, a week later, and half her life later, and still marching third.

I knock together the closest thing I can to love but it cannot be shipped home. This thing does not keep over the miles. And so we consume it fresh here and work our time.


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