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this hour it's grassy, leafed, fat with cold
golden light, nothing humid


the rye asway and lake waves going after their own
green joy --


or is it pure indifference?
I'm in love with whatever it is


now it all goes blue from the cloud passing swiftly


now lustre climbs the poplar and jackpine


birch like exclamations
in the green, white as stripped bone, white as lightning


as the child's third tooth


dragonflies issue from grey casements, then sit atop them,
wings hardening


to lift into clean impossible air


this day this love is wind and frenzy -- its leaves flaunting pale
undersides, it's moss


that thatches the phoebe's nest in the beam
above the new door --


no, not indifference


but one beautiful fact, then another


the child's hands feathering the air, cloud and foam
this green day, and white and gold and unlocked


each of us somehow better than before