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Poetry Archive 6

March 6, 2007

In which I continue to inflict my old poems on my readers.

Beaver Street Cemetery

the gay hound, red
as the crest of utter
autumn, thrusts
into the grassy swells.
he swims for dear death
over the green-backed
grave-backed hills.

his mistress threads
memorial paths
unhurried, in a coat
of borrowed red, like
candied apples. she
has visited
these plots on other
afternoons. her shoulders
sag

a litte round
like tops
of graves.

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