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41 septeMber’s enD after Rilke Little one, let the monarchs flex and rest on the sand before their long migrations. Ease your head onto the float as the sun sinks red on the ridge, summer done, no one else at the lake but a Russian who strokes and strokes on the far side of the rope. Soon enough we’ll dress and hurry home in sudden darkness. If you remember anything from this time, let it be heavy-seeded sunflowers bent over the bed where we pinched tiny stars from a tomato vine. Whatever is not in fruit now will never ripen. Whoever is alone will linger in the hardware store on the edge of town where compact, taciturn men in tee shirts and caps provide what is needed— the screw to fix our slipping doorknob, outlet covers, bailer twine—then, as humbly, take returns without suspicion or reproof. One lifts the last sacks of play sand into our trunk. Just past the lumber yard, a field of soybeans flares for us like a startled flock of canaries. ...

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