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After the Divorce If it must be winter, let it be absolutely winter. —Linda Gregg I think of a burned car in a field and how the goats graze on as the body rusts away. At market you cross the aisle to finger the leeks, pretend to weigh a melon in your hands. At first, the quiet is grievous, which is to say, wounded by a memory of loss, then it is not so hard. Months go by and it is enough–– the hours alone in the afternoon, reading, slicing a pear. It is August, then it is not. Silence builds in the cicadas’ absence. Gold or a blood red burdens the leaves until they fall, opening a vastness in the wood lot. Winter soon. A winter that is more and more my home. 19 ...

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