Winter 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1986 |

Clearing

Where the road turned, we found a placeto rest. No one made demandsor called our names. We heard ourselvesspeaking and answering; we listenedtwice to every sound we heard. It was a way of leaning forward.The echoes that had gone with usfell back. And when we led ourselvesinto the silence we'd discovered our slow voices shed their skinson the dry grass, the empty stones.

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