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Poetry

August

The season wears a windless dirt road shoulder, / a crop of lilies, fields as burnished brown / as beach glass, bright beyond the stony odor / of sidewalks wet from sprinklers.

Here let me stand. Let me look at the fog a little, / its striations cast by Fresnel lens. In the dark an otter / I cannot see, swimming • where sea troubles the sand. . . .