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THE HUSBAND RAKING LEAVES IN MID-NOVEMBER

He rakes the ruddy maple leaves
and curses the oaks, which have lost
in its proper season their chance
for a seemly, decorous surrender.
Let go, he says. Let go.

Inside, his wife is cleaning windows
in a blur of paper towels
to match the fury of an argument
they haven't had in thirty days.
The house's eyes are clear enough,
he thinks, and when the sun comes out
from clouds, he sees himself in glass —
a piker pushing fallen leaves
along the gutter of a one-way street.
Let go, he says. Let go.



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