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this harsh terrain

This harsh terrain
knows the swift bite of winter.
The veiled lake gnawed open
by the mumble of granite molars,
by the tongues of ancient ice
and the aggregate
of eternity’s first breath.

The branches of the bare trees
on the far shore beckon the way
cobras might, swaying
to the pulse of hunger.

A flock of lean birds
rake the sky’s nape
as if each was the talon
of some larger beast
unseen yet near.

The stars appear then vanish
behind a gauze of azure clouds
in this place where it is not dawn
but nightfall that breaks
across the horizon

as the swell of the moon rises
from its cocoon of distant mist
only to be pulled in its arc back
into the belly of this dark lake
to which the haunted return.

                                                                       Published in
Sin Fronteras

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