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Posted by on Jan 20, 2020 in Poetry | 0 comments

LATE

Late

A beech leaf caught in the wind
Flutters by and gilds the sky
Twirling into Lick Brook gorge
Gliding onto black water.
I back away from the edge
And think, the noons of nations
Know no sorrow
But in the midnight hour
Nations feel it in their marrow,
Long numbers aren’t wide they’re late.

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