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By Eugene Datta

PROMPT — The way I see it ...

A tangle of leafless branches

and twigs across a wire fence,

and through it the winter sky:

patches of blue, gray and white,

twilight-washed, reflected

in the pond where bathing, ice

skating or feeding the ducks

are forbidden. In a little yawn

of cloud-less water, the twin

contrails of an airplane are a taut

arrow, which turns, with a sudden

gust of wind, into the droopy slither

of a snake on its way to the next

sky-dune, from where,

as the water stills, flocks of birds



Eugene Datta's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dalhousie Review, Rust & Moth, In Parentheses, Poetry Breakfast, The Passionfruit Review, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere. Born in India, Eugene lives in Aachen, Germany.


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