Slow, in a book of earthward,
the speechless storm
veered North
toward me.
Snow-silent, it kissed
darkened mountain-chains,
then closed like a tome
in the sea.
But I, like a shell,
right here hear the flow,
and rope like a Pinkerton
seahorses heard,
in the swamp of a stone,
in the sand of a song,
and grow, like some
dreamer's green language,
obscure..
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