Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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Having crossed the line more than once
searching, some said wandering
what he felt was dumped, as discarded
pages, where sensations had taken refuge
in an intersect of earlier influences
fog that lifts from an open meadow
fed by a spring, now tall grass
green intertwined, mulch of years mowing
summer bog, that lays in the mind
invites to sit, offering no exit, an end
in its self, mesmerized outpost
in a war zone that paralyzes movement
holding one still, blank and dumbfounded.

Jan G. Otterstrom F. 7/28/2013