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January 2017, vol 12 no 4

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Tricia Knoll

Fathoms Deep


Perhaps all creatures who can count find a way to systematize loss. Saying, this one is worse than the last one. Or this deserves a shorter period of mourning than the last one. The hardest was ten years ago. As if we count steps, keep a ledger, or scramble up slippery rungs on the loss ladder.

Really, suffering is a pool. Fed by eddies. Confused as it muddies. Until silt settles. We see the mossy bottom where darters turn over tumbled pebbles. Later maybe catch a reflection in a ripple of a white cumulus cloud.

fall geese flying west
in a honking line
why that way


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