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“I will become a deity with a smile in this heavy fog.  I am only waiting for the day of my death.”  – Journal entry by Japanese soldier, dead in action at Attu.

On some black mornings, quiet
and yielding to the crystalline fog,
my mind conjures its own excesses.

Better to sleep, best to resist
the suicidal charge of dreams.

First light.

Picking one cedar, I consider
moisture as it pools at glossy tips.

Is it more light? or my eyes
using the dark? or my mind
warming to thought? or my body
naked among possibilities
as a bird in the fire
rises from past annihilations?


Keith Moul lives a happy retirement in the great Northwest, writes his poems and takes fine photos as well.

© 2010, Keith Moul

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