by Yaacov Dovid Shulman
The color of the fog,
The odor of the sea
Are filled with unnamed things
And swift felicity.
The windows of the sky
Admit the wrinkled moon
To spill light on the Alps
And on an unnamed dune
That rolls up in the evening
And sifts away at dawn.
An airplane in the jet stream
Dissolves, a breath withdrawn.
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