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Singing Agathe
I climb no mountains
I have fallen into no valleys
I drape myself with distant lights
and move like a river
always underwater

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There is a cool, wet touch upon the skin
a caress of phantom-limbs
where breath meets blood
an icy pain
boring through sternum
to the place where a heart once burned

seek out ashes
of forges gone quiet
of fires gone cold
the seers are drowned
the prophets are dead
and this is the edge of the waking world

And see what collects upon my shores
pieces of worn, green glass
driftwood made warm and smooth
little tears
waiting souls

And see what gathers in my depths
the ruins of bridges
the shipwrecks of tyrants and saints
old laughter
discarded light

And see what dwells within my eyes
fragments of directions
cups left half full
unspoken oracles

And on my shore
and in my depths
and within my eyes


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