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by David Radavich

Let it be as it is.

Little waves rippling
out toward the shore, reeds
tipping in mild wind,

sun fading slow
as the year's light grows
tired of itself.

Other faces disappear
into their masks somehow
frozen in feelings

that take on colors
of the reaping season

and move mechanically
through days that get
shorter and shorter

speaking in a staccato
language of lungs.

Love goes somehow
gray and interior, curled

to a cool absence

that can’t quite
register any of its ghosts.


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