Another Rehearsal for Morning, by Joseph Massey


Beyond a hand
held beyond itself
the mist is too thick to see.
A dream fragment (a phrase
I wanted to remember)
goes mute in this—
extinguished. Call it
consciousness. What
we lose to recover.
Acacia branches bend
the hill’s edge
off-orange. A blur,
a deeper blur.
A clarity I can’t carry.

{your interpretation/general thoughts}

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