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Notes from the Wilderness

Shh is the one sound

allowed into the vacuum-

sealed laboratory because

this is what a door says

when it is opened or closed.

We pinch the mist

where it branches.

We seed cloud forests

on the banks of cloud seas.

Beneath a blanket of moon,

waist-high, elbow-deep—

this is our only method.

We measure by eye,

eyes shut, until we hear a cry.

We are unkissed for years

by the sun. Colors pool

and pass through us.

When we are nearly translucent.

When we can no longer see

our milk-white hands.

Then the real work begins.

from Little StrangerFind it in the library

Copyright © 2013 Lisa Olstein
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Lisa Olstein Poems

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