A Poet Reflects

The name of the thing escapes me:
My mind these days a depth of erasures,
Hatch-marks, scrawled figures, signs smeared to dust,
The final note of the octave between dusk
And dawn unsounded, yet there like a thorn
To snag, to un-thread a dream, to unravel
Like a sentence that one knows from the start
Should be reeled back in before it tangles …

—Eric Pankey,¬†from “Eclipse of the Sun Observed Through a Pinhole” in Oracle Figure¬†(Ausable Press, 2003)

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