He sings across a great distance,
evenings
when mist rises along deep canyon floors,
when the world is monchromatic blue–
sings to her,
sings to you, as though he
were speaking into telephone lines
falling in graceful arcs down
pine-crowded mountainsides,
His voice blue smoke
on still water–

all of night closes in,
presses closer, its darkness
squeezing his voice into a
corona of sound
11-3-13

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