Wednesday, January 2, 2013

swamp celt

my lumber is a boon to drying fruit.
here i'll wrong and wrong until
one day we'll swim with the krill.

there we will set sheath to hilt.
there face sour rhyme with ritual.
there the heady wind, hoary lake.

never came fail but nor did safe
in or between each age and hour
danger consolidated its claims


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