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I.
Each season you redraw
the outline of your shadow.
Even when you stand still
the angle of the sun
moves the dark space
out of bounds, like the life
you thought you had
under control.
The window turns back wind.
The view is clear,
untainted by the quick
passage of light.
Years are like this:
constant but uncaring.
They pass through you
then are gone.
II.
Your skirt twists like a kite in wind.
You are not careful.
You have left your shoes at home.
Now, both feet down an inch in mud,
you cannot free your hips
to tempt his touch.
He bends you back
and down. Your knees weep
even as a song begins
in your throat,
to be finished at home
at night when you wash
between your toes.
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