November 8

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Last night,
the moon, over the lake–

we slammed on our brakes,
caught our breath,

allowed it to swallow us.
The storms have passed,

with light acting strangely
after sustained destruction,

its opacity failing to soften
the stark delineations

of broken limbs.
Their cut-back reach

leaves more space to fill;
a sly fog condenses

on the forest floor,
rises up to windows

and doors, sounding out
the double panes;

when I woke this house
was afloat in it,

pure light, unending
and of unclear

provenance, the kind
of light found only

on other sides, after
coming throughs,

too bright to look
at, too soon

to think comfort,
but blank and wondrous

before the morning
gives way to thought.

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