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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