By Fritz Eifrig

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the sun licks brittle leaves,
golden shiver of revelation.
the lies I told myself pierce
this vale, our decayed gulf
stark yellow now.

cold resolution quickens,
birdless horizon unveiled,
shadows on clouded eyes.

breath leaves in spirals, blooming
chill tendrils along obscure paths.
flickering cressets now naked and unhooded,
blurred tales raked aside, false and fallen.

look: here
the stories of trees and stones, moss and salt;
a book of signs, sigils written with rain–
these were never hidden.

bared truth beneath a smile’s distraction;
there, waiting beside remembered footprints,
calling across the clearing between us
in the dying sunlight.

– Fritz Eifrig