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Jeffrey
C Alfier
Marquise
Drive in Winter
Late walks spare you a long day's tedium.
You circle the neighborhood at sundown,
pass an empty house up for sale by folks
you've never met in the years you've lived here;
its courtyard, inner rooms, no more dim now
for the lights or loves that vacated them.
The half-moon runs mirrored in high windows.
Mesquite smoke that sweetens the late year's dusk
drifts up from chimineas beyond sight.
It melds with the flights of emerging bats -
those airborne voyeurs skirting the distance,
curving hard angles in the cooling wind.
Foreclosure
Auction
The red pulp from the tree's figs is ferried
through some raven's sky. It will drop
into soil as foreign to its garden home
as a diver ensnared in a shipwreck.
What is remembered that can't be forgotten
as quick as hard earth forgets the last drought?
In whispers of July that thread new shoots,
I can't help but feel heat burn through silence.
Perhaps this solitude belongs to me alone,
born on the tunes of wind chimes behind me,
breezes ringing discordant anthems for all
we barely are, with no more than we have
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