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April The plum tree breaks our in bees. A gull is locked like a ghost in the blue attic of heaven. The wind goes nattering on, Gossipy, ill at ease, in the damp rooms it will air. I count off the grace and stays My life has come to, and know I want less— Divested of everything., A downfall of light in the pine woods, motes in the rush, Gold leaf through the undergrowth, and come back As another name, water Pooled in the black leaves and holding me there, to be Released as a glint, as a flash, as a spark . . . 143 ...

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