Radiance, we know, is never quite as warm as light.Who has not tasted the silver in sea mist?Whosever they are, angels are the first to surface there.You know a guardian by the silver of a river-crossing,of a father’s filmy eyes, in gall, heart, fire,and mostly smoke. In smoke and mostly mirror.As, wedged between forward and backward being,rehashing and planning ahead, presence will be specked againwith being erased, a reusable writing surfacecalling down to the life without rest, the self-propelledsurveillances of sharks.
Sarah Gridley.
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