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by J. Brian Long

Come to me no more as light,
as rasps at the curtain, as chills
in the fever of late August moons,
bring to me no more deep secrets

of rain. When next it storms, go.
Find the one whose eyes are shards
of ever, follow him past the sound
sleep of stones, through the brush

of the wet leaf kiss, rest with him
under strange spells of witchgrass;
let the warm dark fall, sway, hush.
Be touched. Be still. Let heaven keep you.

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