21 March 2012

N

N 3/21

Then the season changes

Right before our eyes
the ices melt and the water rises

I think about water mills

Lifting that cold clear fluid
and raining it down as moss

That is taken
 crushed into a fine powder and

Mixed with milk

Painted on walls
it spells out what you are thinking

Right this moment



This poem continues in O.

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