A FEW LAST LINES OF LAUNDRY

cricket and grasshopper ticking of
the ways we’re passing through. The grass
is singing, nests buried everywhere
in its shaken fragrance, giving heart
to what contains them. The low sun
lying on the horizon
like a great golden egg of light.
A FEW LAST LINES OF LAUNDRY
This ragged shining,
these embodied nothings
are the image of us:
full of ourselves
in every puff of air
and hanging on
for dear life. At mid -day,
when the wind picks up,
such dancing. Look at us:
washed and stretched
to the very limit,
almost touching one another

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