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The river and its aisle of oaks, each new leaf
tipped with the fires of the sun.
The red canoe. And at moonrise
a thin stream of smoke
in pencil-sketch branches
as a fish in the distance
leaps toward the idea of joy.
* *
Look – in the sky
above the shallows
an owl is unfolding her body, wing
by elaborate wing, a simple moment
which now, in memory, seems like
the text of a prayer.
* *
The tin cup. The moon’s white ashes.
And once again
ambition, wearing its muddy boots.
I could have, I should have…
Your hands on my shoulders like rain.
Vol. 27, no. 1, 1998