The Gift

In the stillness of moonlight a lonely
trumpit player sits.
He bleats out an uncertain melody.
There are its hooves, like a horse, it
has galloped off.
All night echoes converse with stars and angels.
Perfectly armless and eyeless it widens crannies.
It goes through holes and flows off an old bridge.
It goes into the marshy lip of a stagnant pond.
It is not easy to discard this host.
This malaise will tolerate no bystanders!

by michele kostelnik

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