amongst the sea buck thorn
what will happen

for that hour we flashed
briefly in a seeking

thrumming the very
wilderness of self

you have been lost to me
for some time now

all that is left:

the name of your
dawn shadow

and

the river that slices
as it runs it chill north

holding all that I
cannot

and the field,
soft as silverfir

and

the birds, always
the birds -smakka–bagms

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