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on the verge of December

November 30, 2016

on the verge of December
nothing seems so as unlikely
as the wind

what is pushing it,
what is dragging it?
why is it in such a damn hurry,
and so indecisive?

perhaps it is just impatience,
after quiet weeks of
no apparent progress

the wind whips, unseen
except by the trails of
apathetic debris,
and tries to rush me through
my book

standing still and bending
are as relevant
as any other response;
answers are,
after all,
blown stealthily from one place
to another

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