At Tops Tip
J
James McLain
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Feathers hand is shrouded
plumaged cleft I hold
breathtakingly so.
Tense to spring unwinding
coiled at dawn
clings a face growing
ever to bold.
Powdered in rice
is painted paper like
in wind flows to
space freed of word.
Standing apart mountains are
to see the peaks
like two stars
fired to burn skin with man.
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