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Steven Carter - USA

Out of Print

Something breathes between these words, reaching out to me, making me feel like a stranger – no, an interloper. I'm trying to write my own canticle of the sun, dwelling on how such a fierce, many-fanged, celestial beast can produce delicate pinks, yellows, and lavenders, as dawn slouches over hill and dale to be re-born. As usual, words fail.

cold colors–
strange nostalgia
for hills I've never seen


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