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Dear Disturber
of the Peace,
I accuse you of breaking
and entering my life---
a quiet room
whose windows you shattered
with light,
where there was space enough
for only one to sleep
and room for neither pain
nor promises.

For a bried time
I harbored you here,
both of us
fugitives of sorts,
though what I flee from
is harder to describe---
the way the sea looks when the wind
has lashed it black and blue,
the damage that happiness
can cause in its blink
tramplings. You left

the way you came
in a month of vagrant leaves,
the whole of winter shuffling
into sight, its white
hospital gown just visible
beyond the emptying trees.
Now a pot of yellow chrysanthemums
burns een at dusk
as if the sun were going down
at the horizon of my sill.
I choose again a life

of plants and vegetables:
the safety of peas in their pods;
the dark places in earth
where sweet potatoes lie
imitating stones; chrysanthemums.
Hear how the animals call
through the night,
each cry a riddle
whose answer you made simple:
there are poachers

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