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The leaves are as red as rosary.

I look as though you were

moving your hand in your hair

like a child absently at an abacus.

Some trees trace themselves above us,

drifting their arms into each other

with their fists blown open to touch.

We are at the margin of the forest

beside the sea. I think the days are

performed in full, meeting us where

we are, each agreeing with the next,

with you, with myself.