Black River
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Which way does the wind blow, the night has grown colder?
Before it is morning, each ghost will cross over.
I fold into two parts, my knee cap to shoulder,
holding your perfume of dust in my hands.
The song of the nightjar is thinner than honey
beside the black river. The water is muddy.
You'll ride on a ferry, your eyes lined with money,
until it is morning and I have gone home.
Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com