22 December 2006

156
In a cold season my father ached
With a thing encapsuled--
Strange our eyes new-scaled now measure
The same horizen.

Sleep you then my dear--
But await no incision
To fold you into our hearts,
Nor call us witness
To unsounded longing.

We'd depth you now,
Time spinned,
Yet kiss a crooked finger.
==

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