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heat goes out walking in the cold
k. a. hays
it seems possible, and i've been told,
that even the dying, who don't mean to,
stow at the 1 yellow mint,
at the liver the waft
of split tomatoes, and april's peas
wire and tendril up, unruly,
at the backs of the eyes.
the old story: decembers,
fiddleheads unwind
in a cat's worn foot pads --
and far in a man's deaf ear
tug the brown wade
and gold peeping
of may ponds.
hard to believe, most days,
that under the ice-tilted walks,
plantain aches yellowly, hums
in august air. or that even
in the 2 of a mother
who grieves for her child
wakes dame's rocket, unwilled,
gangly, soon
a sapling with the tough ears
of elephants.
that's the sapling the dead
blaze into, summer walking in winter.
yes. in wind-wracked limbs,
green wick, 3 the core.
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