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A quarterly international literary journal


/ Poetry /

The sweetness of a summer peach on the tongue,

daylily’s orange bloom lasts a single sun’s round,

day’s crimson hour at dusk,

morning’s pink foggy lifting

before the burning August sun

burnishes all with gleaming copper,

morning birdsong, afternoon drowse,

all lead to running down…

cessation, letting go of what

we, though irremediable, irredeemable,

have hoped for, longing for no more

than the glory that is this present moment.


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