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Departures The plane takes off. A seagull scuds the far end of the runway. Beyond, a tiny smoke curls up from the dusky tatters of the woods. And we go home, non-travellers, who leave the long departures til the end. Where could we go? to read the world from some air-seated atlas, trail our hands across the surfaces of seas, or fondle ponds and rivulets like beads in some old bureau drawer among the pins and photographs— (a child’s face on a browning card, tender, distrustful, petulant— ) Open the window. The mirror shakes. All that good dust flies out of doors. In this small attic of lost time we stand and watch the distances expand. This place is travelling too, has left us, now, is different. Where were we standing when you left? The trees have turned to ash. I see a jet’s white spiral in the west. 24 / The Crisp Day Closing on My Hand ...

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