They gaze across obsidian

water, to speculate

about that final

launch they’ll board.  Hope

and fear of Hurry, and

get your things.  What language will

possess the air.  Hills they’ll stand

upon, halls inhabit.  Tokens

to exchange  —  rings of

beaten gold or black tin, smocks

of fine holland or Scotch

cloth.  The will they might

have of each other.  What

dews will wet their skins; what rains

fall on their locks.  And who

will let them in. 





Joel Chace




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