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Paul Holman

THE MEMORY OF THE DRIFT

Book Six: A NEW WALKING AGE

I

Worn
out,

washed
out,

clouds.

Owl
call.

Smell
of
silt.

I
rest
beneath

the
shelf
of
skulls,

my
thought
no
more

than
a
scrawl

on
the
mind:

a
snake

dwells
within

each
of

us.