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ISSUE:  Summer 2011

A yacht lies down
in my window, on the harbour
the dusk has come.

In distant time
a bus drifting, the young woman
was far from home

who folded there
out of silence, to the shoulder
of a young man.

I can recall
his gesture as, against the glass,
he rested then.

We were carried
through the vallies. On silver light
lay silver rain.


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