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Armored in Glass As the ominous winter scuds heavy grey divots above the scuffed-up trees and snow gathers on the air, presaging storm, and the lowering mountain dusk closes down to a night without stars, looking through my glass shield of window I notice you in dark motion, alone, waving through the night in a pretense of summer calm, of autumn fruitedness. Glass is no armor against grief I dare not open door to; my warm house no shelter against the frigid wind beating its harrying drum of your faded year in measured, rising rolls shaking the stripped poplar, empty as empty words, and scattering snow-temporal atoms into infinite air. How sleep away your terrible music? How watch your fisted hands Waving, waving among the beaten trees in bravado
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