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108 harvest​seam It​was​November.​I​was​not​alone. Send​me​your​green,​an​endless​pouring​name called​from​the​skies​that​still​had​hands,​that​came handed​from​clouds​through​tunnels.​Any​seam was​open,​but​the​ear​was​mine,​the​crest that​climbed​along​the​season​till,​the​gleam that​slits​November​answering,​I​heard, with​scattered​lips,​in​every​pore,​“Harvest.” “Harvest,”​it​shattered.​“Harvest.​Don’t​come​in. Reaping​on​land​comes​on.​​Nothing​comes​in. Stay​out​and​harden​fall​and​death​and​kin.” Still,​like​a​midnight,​I​was​not​appalled. I​took​the​hands,​and​harvested,​and​fall, a​harvest,​kept​its​nothing​from​my​fall. ...

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