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Alan Harris reading
Meeting
by Alan Harris
Letters to mail
and a twilit beckon
from the dimming sky
tempted tonight
my walk to the mailbox
that never seems
to come to me.
At my first turn
the fat, lop-lit moon
shouldered me
and whispered,
"I'm here with you,
never not here.
Turn you to dust
or turn you to ash,
I will be here."
I mailed my letters
and walked for home.
So simply it came to be--
my ageless friend and me
slipping past tree and tree.
From the book
Flies on the Ceiling
(1999)
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