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November
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Flowers, you do not brighten my dust now                                                                  say the roadsMoons, I hunt in the rim of your shapes now                                                                  say the owlsTrees, I break your last, last leaves now                                                                  say the windsall, all is passing say the roads, the owls, the winds. [End Page 86]

Christopher Brookhouse

Christopher Brookhouse is the author of numerous works of poetry and fiction.

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