~GREG HERTZLIEB~

SCRAPER

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Sometimes the line is crisp.
It is the ice dance of a cold shadow,
The metal cut that makes a sound
Like a dry edge.

Other times the line is a dusty drift
Of powder, a group of hairs that drag
Across hills of fiber and fine cotton.

The line is a chalk drive
Through the time
Of a hoarse cry.
 
 

© by Greg Hertzlieb