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Two Sounds


Two sounds arrested me while writing
Prose. They appeared at either ear
Like officers at the front and back door.
One was the sound of the wind
In the corn, the rustling of leaves
Like nervous people rubbing palm
Against palm. The other was the sound
Of a jet, high and unknowable,
Its nervous passengers an abstraction,
Its pilots and attendants no more
Corporeal than this wind that takes
Leaves and makes them make music
That makes me stop trying to write
About the world, and listen to the earth.
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