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Lucy Aron Fog The landscape looms and ebbs, its center skittery as an owl at daybreak. Not things, but their shadows, and cold as old grief. Here a man sits reading a book, so near I can hear the low iambic in-and-out of his breath— yet faraway in this scumbling place where we totter and stumble toward each other, where I would give an eye for one clear sign of south, for one chink of light in this grey wilderness. <- Back to Issue 2/1 |
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All ideas and expressions contained herein represent the opinions of the authors whose names appear on each contribution, not Antioch University Seattle or the staff of KNOCK. Copyright ©2004-2006 by KNOCK, Antioch University Seattle. Trademark law protects Antioch names and logos. |