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Poem	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.
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