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December 9, 2011

tricklings of sunlight,

settlings of dust


time in stillness,

and wooden angles,

and rough stone, whitened.


counting what little has accumulated,

and yet, while spinning, so much has gone on


hidden trapdoor mirrors bounce back light

and a tune twists through the gentle air, in circular repetition,

somewhere between an anthem and a lullaby, somewhere between a ballad and a blues

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