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Lichen is an ear

for stone, listening

to the wind,

to God in its formlessness.

Nothing is stronger 

than that which we cannot grasp.

At night,


I walk into evening

breeze. My soul lived 

here for a year, 

nearly deaf.

 The night was infinite;

 it would not let me leave.

So I lived with sleeping flowers

until I smelled the seed. Until

I heard sound of my own infancy;

an even-

ing, glisten. 

        A Lichen

for an


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