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His night on the mountan

By the light of his porch I could see
His hair scraped back
His salt-tanged neck
His eyes opened very old books

He lit a cigarette
With clever calloused hands
Moon sinewed, melting
Ice around his mouth

Tobacco deep, he came to find me
Walking my spine up to the curve
Between high rocks and constellations
He sleeps there now with his eyes open

Copyright © all rights reserved Debbie Gallagher April 2014

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