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THE LAST ICE
I watch our shape
reflected in the truck wind shield as we move
back and forth looking for ourselves in other places
This morning snow is falling, a stretched tent
where the sky used to be
names for infinity, and all points beyond
reformed into birds with no shape
only space where these reflections move
harsh and light and solitary the centers
and sparks.
© Jeanne Bernhardt 2004
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