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You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding.
You ought to know
I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I'm looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music.
You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?
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