white

thick fog and I can't see
the trees - how quiet
it is, nothing moves
there is no wind, no breeze,
all is still

in here, lights on, I
circle around the heart's
ill and listen to the whisper
saying I am recovering
after years in the mines:
of sore hands and
sore ears, standing

too close to dark people
with poison in their veins
to be at ease, recovering
from sickness out in the
world - small wonder

I sit with my feet up
thinking, ugly oyster
pearled

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