old leaves
follow
the curve
of the water
and now
that the rain
has ended
the trees bend
their branches,
heavy with the push
of the fading season,
towards the shadows growing
in the long
fingers of the grass

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the night outside
grows colder
he is sitting
listening to the shadows
move from room
to room

there are edges
along the corners
of the narrowing room
where the yellow
light of the lamp
does not touch

he is tracing
his memory
along the curve
of her wrist

outside
the snow falls
in separate time

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