The Leaving V


out of its stale and drowsy lair

snow describes the steeples.

We imagine hands there,

pulling out sheets to love and dress

the rooftops and lawns.

The season's back to blank,

the same look from trees.

Evening opens up, washed out, weak.

Flat on our backs,

we watch an angle of geese,

greater than us, honking, laughing -

we must know which -

as they take color with them

south in their leaving V.

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