The silence water makes,
and waterfowl on their mark.
A made loneliness,
its stream runs uphill.
The dropped stone in water,
the cars in their circles.
Reflecting the bridge,
a skein of doubt.
And water tumbles down.
You had to open it.
A mad loneliness.
You had to, you had to.
Waves die, their reach is
not what it was, when it is.
You drive the wind
with the windows rolled.
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Comments about this poem (The Listener by Terese Svoboda )
- Psalm 070, Forrest Hainline
- What is said in autobiography, gajanan mishra
- The weird erotica, Marcel Aouizerate
- Acting Judge, Tim caffery
- Your lovely smile, Jesus James Llorico
- Past Reloaded, Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi
- The Truest Love., Achill Ladd
- Points made between waves, Mark Heathcote
- ignus fatuus or sketches of my past?, Mandolyn ...
- Black Wings, Lilly Emery
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