The water in the eye is a globe of bent images, refracted summer days stretching well into fall. We all know there will be no raising of the dead, no pushing the raindrops back up into the clouds, blanched and forgotten.

But that doesn't make it right.

The water in my eye is a globe that will never fall, but bends and stretches ever downward, freezes as I sleep�and I wake to silence, to the stillness of summer�s end, to departure.

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Back & Forth