Inside me, perhaps
The axilla, a node Or capillary, is a row Of fir trees, a road Curving up a hill, Shining under the weak Light behind a blur Of clouds, pale, oblique, The light turns firm, More sure, more warm, Our steps are slow, The shrubs, the gravel uniform, Sometimes there is a snap, Lightning crinkles, disappears, A cold rain wakes us up, Hisses and grumbles in our ears.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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February 2019
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