The East hills emerge
under third heaven by
chiaroscuro greys,
where salmon come soon to run and scale shellac
in dawn’s smoky wake, an
umber suffused to tawny peach,
a chromatic course contoured by yellowing firmaments,
and washing, wiping
through the sun’s canon and brining eye
aim to my pillow and idyll planning to rouse,
limb life on the rocks, liminal,
chill and stilled,
no chaser, no rod.
--Douglas Blake Olds
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