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Or Dreaming In A Coat Room
Not to forget the way back-
that path etched along a faraway wash of sequoias
in an ellipse then slipped between two seasons,
or in a configuration posing as a trail of wet leaves
and pine cones that wish they weren't so useless,
or entwined in a hedge that twists itself through the
rust-gray of reason in a dream only sleepers believe,
arriving at the wide brown of a dying field using a
plow to drag aqueous spirits inside.
All of this could easily be part of the persuasion.
poem c 2005 Maurice Oliver
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"Macoby Sycamore 1" 2005 Jennifer VanBuren
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