The branchful of dried leaves blown about at the center
of the road, turning on itself is it a path:
snake: gray-brown updrafting: drama:
whole affair played out between wind's quiver, wind's
dusty haste, an almost impeccable procedure,
bit of scenery from which all fear
is deleted. So it
is right here, where I am peering, where I am supposed to
discern,
how the new gods walk behind the old gods at the suitable distance.
-Jorie Graham
View User's Journal
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