if you stop your hand for but a moment
slipping out of present into past
pink wisps of clouds linger
over waters
if in the middle of the river
on this island where you live
you let a hundred years settle
like evening dew on your shoulders
if over and over
dull twilight coalesces into pin pricks of stars
remember the dream
from childhood
how the sun fell one afternoon
and landed in mud
you held it in your hands
a dingy cardboard disk
even after all these years
you cannot put it back
still covered by those useless feathers
buried in the bottom of that broken steamer trunk
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