I’m starting to back away
from the world slowly,

in order to become pure ear.
Air. A mule deer.  Maybe

Karen O. We are who we’ve been
waiting for. What’s taking place

now is free of time—tents
quavering like moon jellies

in the L.A. sky.
Heart’s mind says to itself

I am free to move about.
And also, I am afraid.

We cannot have any unmixed
                                                            emotions, says Yeats.

-Diane Raptosh, White Whale Review

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