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The Soul in NovemberHow she looks I cannot say,
although the petal-less heads
of goldenrod, not flaming
yellow any longer,
are something like her
stillness
and so they must be the reason
I go out, after reading
the morning’s poems
written by others
at their desks, on typewriters,
or by hand in fine black ink,
and be with the blank
desaturated truth of them
standing alone
without any topaz,
though their sun-flares
are a visible memory.
Birds circle us
from tree to tree
in their orbit of the dun meadow.
Then I walk back to the house,
to my red chair,
the laptop, the empty
white sky of the page
and remember from scratch
my own small explosion.
Poetry should be heard.
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