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by George Freek


The winter is miserable.
I near another birthday.
The years pile up
like snow on the roof.
I look out my back door,
and stare at the moon,
trapped like a fly
in a web of branches.
I have heard before he died
Li Po tried to express
the sound of a sunset
in words.
Perhaps he did.
I drink wine,
and listen to doves,
calling mournfully
to their mates.
A meaning is there,
but I can’t find it.


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