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by J Brian Long

This past evening we sat together
at the stone, but you seemed far
from me; your touch was cool
as willow-root and clay, you were

silent and all starlight and God be-
side me.  There was only the wake
of the ferry and an elegy of bells
from across the river, there

was only a feather that wandered
lost among blooms. It has been
three months. Come dark,
your heel is the tick of a clock.

Wind Publishing Co.

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