The End of Lake Superior

It was
             cool and dark,
azalea in bloom
at the edge

of the forest.
The raw silk of it
             peeking out
from its

heavily ironed
dress shirt.

Still more surface
             area than flowing
water, it was

hard to live by glacial
repose alone.

The visible saints
             drifting again

into imitation,
into the world’s late


We buried ourselves
at her bequest.

Read on . . .

Water,” a poem by Ladan Osman

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