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what can worry me if I’m not here
this is that day again
home again in a winter mist
no-when greener
struck with the bright when it comes
what constrains me I surround myself with
bury under
these are my catastrophes
everyone’s a ghost here
grief of the gone with us yet
sometimes sad the past so high a pile
so dusty precarious
so much me
stretching well out and mind not to slip
the handwriting remains to fire
I delve my own surprise
there’s plenty of everything here
spider and possum and bandicoot too
frogs, some insect tip of the tongue
birds as various as song
there’s plenty for us all
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