cold mountain (61)

as long as bones are rare

Bleached edge of a gull’s wing, dull sidewalks
empty in the morning, pale
silt dunes inscribed by winds,

each thing essential, when it leapt
like a sliver from the spar
and struck me,
rare, singular, unattainable, but:
here

a page or screen, white, open frame
to which we bind our inky tendons,
find flesh for thought—

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