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When the light, pummeled gold, casts the windows of houses up like foil
and the dusk begins to soften your bones toward snow
as you sit, turning photos in the album, each one
a hinge, or wing, the soft black feathers
sleeping under there, and the page another hinge,
and the book another in the creaking house
on the earth with its creaking trees, then you, too,
can step out into the darkness
onto the vast gleaming page of passing through.
Mark Irwin
A Passion According to Green
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Copyright © 2017 by Mark Irwin
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission