from New England
Primer
by Bruce Guernsey
Moss
How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks? —
imagine,
greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.
How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough? —
a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name. |
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image by Victoria Woollen-Danner
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