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Monday, March 21, 2016

On the Tilted Water

A lost bell of dusty brass
  rocks slowly on the tilted water,
    leaving the gentle evening to its own company

It becomes anybody's guess
  whether it still has the gumption to sing,
    ring or clang with any clarity at all

Fog horns lifted from dreary spirits
  chase their fading selves across the
    dimly lit surface of this particular dream world,

Never catching anything
  beyond some diffuse sense of themselves,
    as directionless as the dark itself

Lovers twirl by in sweeping dances –
  churning tides and tight-knit eddies
    in search of sounds that rise yet never fall –

While barely-floating spirits
  row their aching bones along the
    way the wind might have carried them

Had it been there to guide them
  through the quiet calm of approaching night,

    in search of shining reverberations of the soul.

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