AUGUST the fields with their fine catch of weeds always make something the wild carrot has spread a cloud of lacey heads in the long grass the dry sun levitates in its field of blue over the white circles looking up to it as to the necessity that makes them stand in crowds my life or a hundred like mine go past before the grass and flowers can catch their troubles from them I wish my troubles were not my condition or their double in my heart was not the life I love
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