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Fall 2006 [Issue No. 10]

POETRY


 

In Summer

Magdalena Sokolowski

 

 

From our languor in the grass, time drifted

by counting clouds—all of it somehow propelled

by nothing—we rise to taste fresh fruit:

wild berries warmed by summer’s sun

that when picked from giving branches

soften to compote in our palms.  

No one shares with us this succulence;

only plucked bushes reveal that here

we were happy.

 

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