Empty Coffee Cup

This dimly-lit café, there’s a voice then two, then three speaking like a broken triangle with so much impatience.   Winter, dense and black, crams itself into this room. Outside, muted colors are carried off in the night.   I have longed for winter’s death for the

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Lake As Meditation

Below the spoken world, In scales and brilliance The blade-like fish Shimmer In the water’s sky. I look down At the relaxed voice Of the lake Holding morning’s light Then again holding change. The sunrise as lamp And shadows from birds Damp in the ripples Damp in

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