LATE IN SEPTEMBER the bigger sky making latitudes visible a squirrel squirts up a tree carrying gold light in his mouth the box that can't contain us is on the shelf off the shelf the wind from down south is confident of its rain cold settles in next door when we walk up the alley we wind up unexpectedly not winding up anywhere when we wake up we dally the gold light is crushed by nightfall we can live this way till another way appears the withering on my face is what we have in common that won't stop here
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