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Prime At dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fogwere fingers pointing up from graves, as if what’s bornmight rouse the dead into an epilogueof mist that lifted, leaving swatches...

after reading Richard Wilbur’s “Hamlen Brook”      Gliding upon cascades of sound,     the crumpled leaves that ride the rushmake visible a crystal underhush         ...

The sound was coming from so far awaywe thought at first it was the breath we missedthe moment we were dead, that very day. It neared us like a...