[Moodpoems]
In mastodon cold, the lichen clamps on stone
walls and the shins of trees picked to spine,
its branches scrawling a Saxon script.
The blunt lake glints in a guttering light,
shutting itself with a pewter lid,
welded in a grip of Nordic tones:
dull silver, salt gray, vein-blue;
with punitive butts, the wind compacts
the pallid, occlusive waste.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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