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Creative Writing at BGSU

 

 

 

 

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This Winter


Vol. XXVII, no. 1

Patrick Whitfill

you wear blue like a wish
and hold your breath

until the snow changes
its quick-backed patterns.

You want to ignore
the gabardine throats

of the blackbirds
clogging the horizon.

The moon rises a bit
later lately. The trees

are pushing against
night. And yesterday,

I saw a flock of geese
pass over the house.

I forgot to mention it.
They were singing,

I think. Or praying.
Whatever it was, it was

sad and poor and lasted
for far too long.