Cora Greenhill
Under Mt Shasta
I could come clean
living in this lake-water
just floating naked,
towards the sacred mountain.
Could grow old
here, suspended in silence.
Words would rise sparely
from the depths of me.
A pattern might sometimes
like this breeze silvering the surface
cause someone's skin to shiver
or like a fish on a line
the flashing life of a phrase
might arrest a breath
or my toe in the sand might startle a crab-
like habit of mind.
Page(s) 102
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