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The Blue River
The blue river
sits in
time
and recollects
the founding
of existence.
In palatial
stars
the majesty
of knowing
rips through the
sundry,
pale dawn.
You come to
me
at once,
laconic
and disconsolate.
The fever purrs
like
a wry machine
in
the
cavern of your
birthing.
I am never
surprised
at what I
see,
your naked form
working in
the wonder
of waters
fair and divine.
Copyright ©
Brian Bronson
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