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Dawn spreads the sheen
of paleness on the ocean,
exposes nuggets
in the hills.
Phantoms haunt the cusp
of night and day,
the ones thought lost
mingling dream and memory.
Their presence both salves and troubles
the exposed heart,
the rising blood,
the tongue half-a-whisper
from saying a name.
From my window,
I float toward the half formed figures,
fill in the details they have coming,
embrace the company
with eyes that do the work of arms
until light finally severs the living from the dead.
Day begins in earnest,
without a thought for me.