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Nancy Christopherson


Look, whale spouts, those vast sea giants slow in their grazing.  I’m gone

from myself, immobilized by serious longing for what beats finally comp-

lete in its form. Is that too much to ask to vie for? Mercy oh mercy ah me-

rcy.  A shill in line breaks as the waves pounding in. Let me be a shoal, a

reef. A shoal and a reef in which we swim but safely where the waters are

clear and we can see bottom. O wavering drifting antennae mark the tide-

lines with careful attentive touching.

One Word, Muse

My ear clasps around your waist

tight as a fat snapdragon blossom

around an infatuated bumblebee.


Here on a beach

with our buckets, I don’t know how

you came up with this notion

but you’re welcome.

How She Calls It A Window

O window

before me through which I decipher three

bells, the trees, the willows piercing through

snow with their tips on fire. Yes, name it

a miracle. Name it a window. That is perfect.

Nancy Christopherson's poems have appeared in publications across the US, UK, and Canada. Author of The Leaf, she resides in Oregon. Visit

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