For F.D.P.
Lightly intoxicated
with mist slowness
nears us
like speech feeling its way
home
time delivers us to
the ferry, to the to and
fro, to a mooring post
stooped in thought
longing lures
despair flees
from the reed or frees
rumour
from bank to
bank, again and again
draws a haze
over a lasting
transience
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