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63 Return Bright evening stars come shining. Night’s soothing hand smoothes the waves along the bank where oak roots work their way to the surface like stitches fireflies among the sawgrass like sparks dropping from torches as I in my borrowed boat set out. Leaning into the oars I picture him for whom the waters would not part still lost still wandering the sunken net of roads below black flame of his deathlamp flickering still searching for landmarks on his way to take his body home to lay it down searching for the faces that would come to welcome him calling out hearing only in return the waves tolling their mourning bell as though the living darkness had descended taking all 64 stars receding farther into nothing sun refusing ever to shine as though heaven had become all things above this water into which I reach my hand now pull it back as through a mirror. The moon at last comes clear, stone yellow mote in night’s eye, lays my shadow on the surface drifting fellow pilgrim that never can go down to him my lantern the light to which he can never rise. ...

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