Between two nights
The brief day.
The farm is there.
And in the thicket, a snare
The hunter set for us.

Noon’s desert.
It still warms the stone.
Chirping in the wind,
Buzz of a guitar
Down the hillside.

The slow match
Of withered foliage
Glows against the wall.
Salt-white air.
Fall’s arrowheads,
The crane’s migration.

In bright tree limbs
The tolling hour has faded.
Upon their clockwork
Spiders lay
The veils of dead brides.

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