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Peter McFarlane. “Feather”.

Come to me the words
that one day boiled in the dense
stew of vastness.
Their open dams flowed
and reflowed in the deep furrows
of time.
Upon this wasteland of sterile signs,
under this fog of blurred names
I summon them today.
What was of them?
Where did they nest after the rowdy
revelry of their first flight?
I invoke them in nights riddled with screams,
in days gravid of thirsty and deserts.
I call up the sweet pulp of their reminiscences
at this quiet page.
How brief was their flame,
how fugitive the blink
cracking the shadows
in the darkest instant of tedium.
Their minute strokes left as a trace
with no body,
an indelible tear upon the crystal
of some dream.
Here I draw them,
as remnants of empty sounds,
agonizing embers of the ephemeral and eternal.
Recycling dying ruins
of words that never returned.