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This poem previously appeared in Alba #4; one of Kathryn's new Internet poems will soon appear in The Magazine of Speculative Poetry.

Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca.

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by Kathryn Rantala

    I'm sorry, Harry, I can't talk to you now, I'm writing.
    I just can't
    though you linger,
    a swimmer in afternoon,
    out of the sun and clothes
    and full of an end-of-the-day want
    before you are dry.
    Your need sings like notes in your skin,
    a lyric in a place without ears,
    in a place
    where fog birds muffle the beach,
    pulling the water, the shells, the sky
    where everything in
    is grey
    and everything tightens to words,
    but just not a word for you, Harry,
    not right now,
    and seldom
    for me,
    where everything in was there,
    the already rhythms,
    the fog-grey frame,
    my own unlimited lack,
    where everything in
    is gone,
    where it knows it should talk,
    but can't,
    where it goes
    and I go
    and where,
    before we can ever come back,
    we are gone,
    I just can't talk when I'm writing.