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| Another season in Upper Turkeyfoot |
I look up from writing lines,
and the leaves have turned to bronze,
frost has dropped the walnuts
into dying grass,
and the orioles have gone.
I look up from form and sound
to finches molted brown,
to neighbors carried off
to hospitals in towns,
and fewer friends.
I look up from broken meter,
isolate, preoccupied, and vaxed,
the world grown stranger still,
more beauty and more death.
I look back down.
