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And tell me
by Peter Shefler

And tell me‐
before the night grows long‐
who was it,
in the snow-drifted firs‐
who spoke in glad silences
and lifted their eyes
as if out of dreams?
It was not you, for you
were gone‐
and no one knows
the reasons now, nor why
I chose the timeless
star-spilled skies,
and could not find you
in any real or unreal place‐
in any space of days and years‐
you passed between
my outstretched hands, eclipsed,
and came to me
but like sweet snow against my face
melting into tears.


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