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On the painting by Vincent van Gogh The trees are aflame.The stars are ablaze.The moon swirls as it dances through the night.The Milky Way curlsin light waves breaking on the shores of the far horizon.The steeple, the people in their homesalight
Tiny plastic robot, lit from insideby the dim glow of twin LEDsbehind blank eyes, its stickered decalsalready peeling away – meaningless arrays, dials fixed at ten,gapless grilles of imitation steel,Clipart screws holding nothingtight to nothing – the only textures
I often hike the west ridge of White Oak Canyon alone, though everyone says I shouldn’t. By the slow push of wind and rain, that slope of stones is the only way nowto reach the upper falls,where decades ago we’d make love for hours to the

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