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18 c l e A R A n D c o l D Though already setting, the sun in late afternoon in late December revels in its power—how it, though meager, can set red-brick facades ablaze, glorify an oak’s moss— the only green thing— and later sear far clouds deep purple, more sky exposed because the trees are bare. Meager, too, what you could give me, what you called fondness— but i let it dazzle me for a time. And, though the room is darkening, the last light brightens the metallic edge of the window screen before it goes. ...

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