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Continuum

The world was a shore, whether sound or form Or light, the relic of farewells . . .

—Wallace Stevens

Storms blacked the morning out, but with noon

now floating some phantom blues, the lulled

cove tones everything down. Honed by horizon,

peaks fall back into line, and loons resume

their leery routes while shadows leaf through

shallows again. Open now to slow reflection,

the limestone book of changes cites what [End Page 83]

can’t be lost. If returns as is. Driftwood speaks

for the tribe that had no word for wilderness. [End Page 84]

Barry Sternlieb
Richmond, Massachusetts