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14 RECOVERY I’m reading Horace Because I was told not to. The first frail swarms Of flies in the air As sap drips from still barren maples, Half moon in the noon sky, A wind blows but the dust is calm. Nubs on the willow Are cracking, the black earth beginning To labor as oxen path back and forth As a voice gives birth In the brittle hedge, As I watch sheep bed down And llamas standing windward. Let any thorn tree, Horace writes, Spring the briefest leaf, As a transport plane circles The airbase, practicing. A housefly taps the warm pane I see this reflection on the glass. ...

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