. . . from the day before. Sorry, I couldn’t move on until I’d worked on this some more:
Head crowded with voices from dreams
I stepped from my house this morning
into shivering air, trembling air, symphonies
of waxwings and robins, a percussion
of crows … Why do we enter the future
with the past in our night pockets? Trees
shook with squirrel passions; goldfish
drifted from the pond’s dark bottom
into pale water. At dusk the mountains
were scarved with mist.
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