Snow Fence In Summer
We are propped
in chanting Indian summer wind,
fixed upon empty ribs
of snow fence
swaying akimbo in afternoon air,
lightly touching
sepia earth.
As I touch you
I am someone else.
A new-dark wind rages
through the open window.
Lying here, we absorb night
suspended
in a high gazebo, unseen fences
pushing backs,
pushing us to one another;
the last harvest wind
jade through hands.
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