Of one of the mysteries

Waking as if in dusk
watching someone sleep
mist of morning
not the future yet
or radio damage
life creases forehead
smell night’s hair
still, like nothing is
still, cloud-sun very soon
rain cold, decisions
weigh in the body
lift, turn, flutter
currawong water falls
onto day side
struck dumb I hold
my hands warm
breath needing voice
on later, rising

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