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Wind rocks the
rocker
and its barred shadow,
invisible, restless widow
shooing the fox sparrow
out of the roses. Not a
thing here opens without
it closes: this door,
these wings in me, nor
what I wish to see more
clearly now the fog’s rolled out.
Things close because they must,
and there’s a word for it:
we forget and we forget
that we are vined and florid,
too, and there is wind in us.
So what if the day is dying.
Each night makes orphans anew.
Some other eye opens onto
a dim vista. A star blinks blue.
Now the hungry bird is crying.
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