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this hour it's grassy, leafed, fat with cold
golden light, nothing humid

the rye asway and lake waves going after their own
green joy --

or is it pure indifference?
I'm in love with whatever it is

now it all goes blue from the cloud passing swiftly

now lustre climbs the poplar and jackpine

birch like exclamations
in the green, white as stripped bone, white as lightning

as the child's third tooth

dragonflies issue from grey casements, then sit atop them,
wings hardening

to lift into clean impossible air

this day this love is wind and frenzy -- its leaves flaunting pale
undersides, it's moss

that thatches the phoebe's nest in the beam
above the new door --

no, not indifference

but one beautiful fact, then another

the child's hands feathering the air, cloud and foam
this green day, and white and gold and unlocked

each of us somehow better than before