of what we know
it is with flying feet that sweeps the winter
blown in from higher places where echos
of what we know and do not speak aloud
the lying of the rustled sand now slips past
gone so soon into another stranger’s arms
these hurried days shout the anguished sky
leaves you sitting in the darkness wondering
how patient the seconds slip into each other
when will they turn and smile down you again
I love “shout”
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