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Now
that house-plant shoots have hit the ceiling,
ivy
bursts through parapet appertures
and
pollen fluff seems to float on sullen air,
it
must be time to take account
of
thoroughfares pasted with false friends
or
follow through habituated eyes
gaps
between leaf clusters, how the land lies
athwart
my expectations, loves, bad feeling.
With
dusk and long distance concealing
children
grown like a well-pruned rosebush,
months
of everyday solitude
(nearer,
nearer than the sound of blood
beating
through one inner ear)
choke
up the sources, run to seed, feeling.
By
country club and golf course, unappealing
concrete
towers return no echo -
not
even clock digits staining them with rust;
repainted,
white arrows at corners
gone
round each weekday cannot recall
how
anyone weathered these surfaces,
surfaces
which won't weather themselves -
cast,
enameled, fired to resist
any
worn smooth patches, patina, any feeling.
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