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TWILIGHTS The big stones of the cistern behind the barn Are soaked in whitewash. My grandmother's face is a small maple leaf Pressed in a secret box. Locusts are climbing down into the dark green crevices Of my childhood. Latches click softly in the trees. Your hair is gray. The arbors of the cities are withered. Far off, the shopping centers empty and darken. A red shadow of steel mills. TWO HANGOVERS NUMBER ONE I slouch in bed. Beyond the streaked trees of my window, All groves are bare. Locusts and poplars change to unmarried women Sorting slate from anthracite Between railroad ties: The yellow-bearded winter of the depression Is still alive somewhere, an old man Counting his collection of bottle caps In a tarpaper shack under the cold trees Of my grave. I still feel half drunk, And all those old women beyond my window Are hunching toward the graveyard. Drunk, mumbling Hungarian, The sun staggers in, And his big stupid face pitches Into the stove. For two hours I have been dreaming Of green butterflies searching for diamonds 124 ...

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