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Miserere

If I were alone in a desert and feeling afraid,
I would like a child with me.

—Meister Eckhart

Across the basin
        the blue of mountains, beyond
those waves still more. Not

        rollers and not clouds, they are
animals waking from sleep,

catching a scent, trace
         of the child who, over seas,
picks up a bone flute,

          draws breath, and like a light wind,
a dawn wind, begins to play.