Written by Randy W. Plym
to those found dead in chimneys
or in Great Bridge, or Albany,
to those who climb
down from camphor trees
on humid winter mornings, yes,
there comes a quiet,
there comes a gentle rain.
And my heart like the horizon
shudders, and like the gray sky rises
and falls.
And yes,
is falling still.
Text © Randy W. Plym
*
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