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Editor back-issues, poetry

Most mornings alight on my bones this way—The shadows of the leaves of a tree risingAnd falling like a ship on a sea, upon my windowpaneThat glowed with the golden light of Saturday.But today, the window was a silent nothing—When I woke, the shadows had gone awayTo stretch big and heavy, to trespass rooms And hearts and dull their landscapes.I…

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