Steve Mitchell

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Open Well

There were stations of shadow
in her upturned face

her eyes flashing deep
from another time or dream.

Hands folding like damp umbrellas
she offers me a sentence

with the slant of a roof,
willing the glance I accomplish;

and, once I look into her eyes,
I have looked into her eyes

and it is only then

that I come to understand
what manner of loneliness I have chosen.