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Town Folk

 A curious collection of tree-like impulses radicalized by plain speech and a few clouds. Chords form in distant gatherings, like seeds. Town folk strike intransigent poses amidst documents of wonder. They stand firmly green, brown, or red, with invisible books and long strands of history. You feel akin tho nobody sees the linkage. The weather just produces damp fantasies of clime. The trees and their squirrels and rabbits, crows and toad stools, create a literate pattern of daybreak. Noon becomes a summit of action, night brings autumnal musing. Lo, stretch long from eminent light. The people, even you, extends the tidal dialogue. Somehow, Hart Crane knew something. Emily’s book holds you. You can call everything America. It is just a tree without you in mind.


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