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Michael Baru


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That kind of a day. One of the remaining few. The yellow through green ever more persistent. So noticeable despite the wind trying to fluff up the trees. Wearing a summer jacket, but with a sweater underneath. Everything is thinner now: the warmth, the light, the air, the promises to write every day. Translucent and transient. About to fade. But not just yet. Something is on the horizon, but still distant. Good thing it is far. Fallen leaves, dusty roads and the eyes are dry. They have yet to overflow. Turned-up corners of the mouth soon to come down. Her perfume still smells of summer, but theres a bitter edge to it. Tenderness in the eyes that look past her. Arms embrace, but they are getting cold. Words can still
be heard, but the whistling of wind, the rustling of leavesThe time has come, and it is not going away.

late September
the first patches
of brittle ice
in your words


translated by Eugene Wasserstrom

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