--Bret Shepard
Some caribou take place with late hunger. If death is the mind
out of season, you hunt the sound of what it was
in the melt-filled space outside. You hear it beneath the lowest
tempo of need. You find it in your nature. Lost
on the trails of others, lost in reflection
most nights—memories like the melt that was once ice. What is
lost outside moves without you. The sound is one track playing
hours of your inside voice.
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