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dusk,
urgent
the trimming of hedges
and the sweeping of leaves
the tending of first shoots
scarecrows of the field come to life
ghosts of old bicycles pass
my cloud in the shape of a cloud
under the street run of since rain
smoke telling autumn
an open window and these wings
little fire and the sun’s last
the scratching down of such lines
little snub nosed van pulls in
from the least world one looks out
to chart the change of light
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