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Stroke

by
 The literate are ill-prepared for this
snap in the line of life:
the day turns a trick 
of twisted tongues and is
untiable, the month by no mere root
moon-ridden, and the yearly eloquences yielding more
than summer's part of speech times four.
We better learn the buried meaning in the grave: here all we see of its alphabet is tracks of predators, all we know of its tense the slow seconds and quick centuries of sex.
Unletter the past and then the future comes to terms.
One late fall day I stumbled from the study and I found the easy symbols of the living room revised: my shocked senses flocked to the window's reference where now all backyard attitudes were deep in memory: the landscapes I had known too well- the picnic table and the hoe, the tricycle, the stubborn shrub-the homegrown syllables of shapely living-all lay sanded and camelled by foreign snow.
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