Other, newer ones seem old too.
Only when a line of trees ends in something
Does it resemble the model of progress glimpsed once
in a bottle as a boy. Our references have all aged a little
as we were looking at them, not noticing.
Now there's something perverse in every yellow leaf,
every cat loafing, even the stick leaning against the door.
I'd like to get out of these clothes . . . "Later."
And a full moon of oxymorons swings up over the ridgepoles
with their chimneys. It's light enough to read by.
But nobody feels like reading now.
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