Tuesday, January 24, 2012


There swells in the far North
a slow sea,
an imperceptable rise and descent
into grinding poverty
harvesting rocks in fields of dreams

a land aloof, nevertheless in beauty,
that cannot bear much company,
settlements scattered and small,

and lowering nimbus overall,
with smoldering smoke from cooking fires,
heaving like the mountains heave,
moving like massive glaciers move
in winds that only stir
the surfaces of things, leaves and twigs,

surge fathomless tides of melancholy,
floes of motionless joy,
the sound outside on a frozen night
of a single violin.

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