Waiting In Wings

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Tell me. Tonight,
when your mind goes blank,
where the smoldering words
will go?

Half-submerged is the harvest
moon. There are splotches
of clouds, but no
clear invite.

Aerial moonlight.
tells the age of tallest pine.
I will not climb the
Everest anymore.

Sky now plunges deep in
an abyss. I will embrace
the upturned terra ferma
and write a new poem.



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