Shadows speak names like
a roll call spoken into the whispers
of the wind-
solemn worlds carried like bundled stowaways
upstream on a turgid current-
what soil awaits the seed, as it pitches
its sail
and dreams wearily of burrowing deep into the
shadows swirling into the eddies like
stars into black holes-
the river bubbles as the names are spoken,
sputtering and mumbling and washing the
rock faces clean,
until all that remains are the bleached pebbles
of yesterday’s streams,
tiny fossils embedded in the shadows of
the afternoon sun*


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