Nothing at dusk, lord, but dust and road to keep it. The ﬁeld kneels under white pines, umbra the edge to whom this is addressed : a mind part fern, part birch : two turkeys slowly S-ing their necks through
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Separation is the necessary condition for light.
so it came to me to carry the abandoned mattress to the attic a month dead my father waited hillside in the field surrounding his house I was glad to see him to remember when the fathers seemed generic related a class of things as uniform as trees are when you don’t know their names a stand of them across the field I want to say autumn aspens the late fathers blonde as early evening wind startles their eyes and makes of your name a sail a boat above roots that rise to stem that rise to leaf his door and cornices his felt hat and mattress empty it feels like forever above the flickering field the fathers shrinking far beneath our feet
for Lisa Fishman