Abstract
^ ^¿¿¿ ¿£. Cliff Agiant chandelier hung inside the woods, the waterfall emits unceasing light, green blood drippingunder ice beyond a dead raccoon in fern. On ledges ofthe cliff we stand remembering summer speaking through a bird's-mouth low in evergreen, eyes drinkinggin-clear forms: wild geranium, bourbon-colored bedstraw near the brink. Yet even now, entranced with mid-December's rocky world, we gather lost directions from a face ofsleeping earth, its dreams our deepest secrets mirrored in glistening wakefulness. Upon this world's-edge we can view the season's turning, a suspension that is ours, a blood sealed by skins ofice. Walt Franklin ^7f^ # 3 ...
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