Apples and ivory
bathing in the lethe
bobbing downstream
and then
like a dream
a bridge
its spidery iron
and its elder moss
the bubbling black speaks
remember, remember, remember, and
like all the wet clothes in the world
the trees, each sound falling
dead on their leaves,
each drop comes home
to the mute sea
but even after everything
there is a wind that comes
down that lonely river
through your hair
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