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November 28, 2013

On Elsinor, the highest peak,
a break in cloud served as a lens,
and scudded through the valley’s cleft.
I followed it with focused eyes,
saw little more than dusky fields,
then blinked, and turned to see the clouds;
the tapestry of living mist:
the curling whorls and waves of grey,
forever thrown and tossed by storms—
a sea of moon-dust gravity:
the talons of a ghostly hawk,
its fingers curling endlessly;
the memory of cresting whales,
that crashed and joined the sea again;
the specter of a woman’s face,
with lips that kissed in dreams and left;
the incorporeal design
of mountains, cities, rolling plains—
all this I saw within the clouds,
but never saw upon the earth,
and never understood again:
on Elsinor, the highest peak.

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