Thursday, March 7, 2013

How must it be

by Bruce Guernsey

How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks? --

greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough? --

a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.

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