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ISSUE:  Autumn 1984

Late afternoon, the eight-chimneyed building
across the yard, clock on its gable,
lights up, as if with fire, in every window.
An excess: the sky is still light,
or almost light, and something about
that light, the white trim, the slate
gray roof, the air itself, the lucent sky,
seems single, almost a surface you could polish.

I have never felt empty.
Once, when I was a child,
I felt too full, and sometimes at night.

Now this light, this stranger light,
so different from everything else
it seems the same—

Walking around the world this way,
as if a world were being made—

Nothing slips through the net, falls from the basket.
The earth, inside its porous skin, is whole.


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