Losna (Winter)
From beside a sun-
paled bridge – enamel
petals falling, brickle
and bleached – I watch
the mounting satellite –
wan-creeping
above bitter horizon –
over looking-glass
spatters of rheumy
phosphorescence.
Numb and buoyant
in brittle air
I place a foot on
the echo-sheen lake
and walk to meet
the moon.
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Will Vigar 
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