The maple in front of the
Drugstore is in colour,
Gold as blood and green as
Fire. Along the roadside
Stell chairs have fallen
Over in the wind. From
A doorway a piano is
Let sound by some soft
Hand. The televisions are
On in all the morning bars.
Doves tumble overhead.
Some stand at the corner
And smoke cigarettes : it
Is eleven o'clock Tuesday.
Old light in an old world.
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