Dispatch #116
from "A Window in New England"
This morning the light is bleached by cold. Pinhole sun caught up in clear quartz. Blinded, I read the quiet unwriting frost, field, fence, gull.
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This morning the light is bleached by cold. Pinhole sun caught up in clear quartz. Blinded, I read the quiet unwriting frost, field, fence, gull.
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I've been bleached by cold.