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by Carol Hamilton

Millions of years upthrust
eroded down to our steps
somewhere between red sediment
against sky and gravity
We see how brief we are
but cannot grasp
the hair-breath of our being
New pains from those days
mean nothing The piled-up mail
tells a different story
one of how things fall apart
in my absence  how
despite all I have seen
everything exists in the nanosecond
In the end the truth
remains tongue-tied 


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