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January Collage
I take time and stop
this Saturday afternoon
to watch the sun slide
across the line of trees
spreading rouge on the snow.
On the radio a tenor sings
My God shešs dead.
I shall never learn her secret.
On the floor my daughter stirs
a bowl of green stamps.
Applause: Lisa in her
white nightgown enters.
The tall weeds lean russet
in the silent breeze.
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