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I can just make it out across the stubble
in the snowless overcast of another mild winter,
the standing ruin of our cohabitation,
the empty house and briared yard,
the haunted sheds and silt-filled spring;
I can almost see our children run.
Beside the road the barn abides,
bearing the injuries of time;
if animals have souls, they're still there, too,
imagining each other huddled in snow,
inventing a life they can live with.
