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Apr 17, 2025, 6:00 am17 ptsWhite edges the branches of the morning tree.White crisscrosses the open grave,This unmarked field. At its border,A cicatrix of tracks heads toward eternity.The tracks lead elsewhere. TrainsInsert an urgency when they will.The sleeping grapes, the dead tomatoes:This was summer, once. I preferIt now.…
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