Time becomes a leftover along with
thought. All the gods return. How different
they are, how changed, how quietly they
gather, how calmly. How kind of them to come.
Between Parish Road and Nehoiden Street
our wind is having its way with
our pine trees tonight. I am hearing things
again. The genies are setting someone
loose. Unwrapping someone.
Water in the
birdbath now ice. History is what
midnight has become.
Blue Millennium Press
PO Box 958
Bolinas, CA 94924
No one writes like Duncan McNaughton, you'll notice