'Save,' by Jim Davis-Rosenthal


CAPE
Robert James Berry



Here tales conceive and become,

Like the eels in the slate waters


There are rough silent watchers


in the insides of hills


The ache of north is in the sleet


The giant thews of basalt


The Skerries are the Ocean's


teeth torn up by the roots


Their wind skins you all night


This is the cape of cloud,


Frontier of ice


Motion me back


I am one of this tribe


I have writing to make




©1998 by Robert James Berry

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Original Graphic © 1998 by
Jim Davis-Rosenthal
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