3.
Eleanor Gray
among the leaves of evening, deciduous light, red orion,
the hushed confession of twilight, crows in a woodland
I come from the river
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all is beckoning the dismantled world, it is a soft thing,
which calls and listens, but never comes
concoct of wistfulness and laminous cold, garnet-winged birds
pitched towards some ever-woods, a tender place
the long marriage of the otherworlds is over, there is no oaktime gate
for departure, or the blue-depth water holding the secret of
the Other’s name
we are reduced to our own tongue, few colors, and all
that is unremembered