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 Between two nights
the brief day.
The farm is there.
And in the thicket, a snare the hunter set for us.
Noon’s desert.
It still warms the stone.
Chirping in the wind, buzz of a guitar down the hillside.
The slow match of withered foliage glows against the wall.
Salt-white air.
Fall’s arrowheads, the crane’s migration.
In bright tree limbs the tolling hour has faded.
Upon their clockwork spiders lay the veils of dead brides.

by Peter Huchel
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