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THE
WINDOWS
I
size up windows from a garden’s end:
all
black at first in geometric lots
inset
in white walls phloxed and cyclamened
with
scent. Black glass like
nothing-slots.
Then
I see how the oak I’m under knots,
refigured,
in the sunglass window panes.
The
house itself is full of forest veins.
...
(For full text see
the Kindle ebook The
Nature of Things (Collected Poems) by Alan Marshfield)
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