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Poem: Poem Made of a Tree 

In spring, the fog is cresting
and settles nowhere like a dream
a housefly might have. Through the fog,
the green thunder of a too early tree sends out
its birds, static and singing madly
in a riot against
the single cloud of sky.
This love is abusive and it is the opposite of grace.
It is inglorious and it is not a choice.
At the train station,
a man smells of coconut shampoo
and hums an easy song to himself.
He smokes a $.75 cigar and lifts a plum
to his mouth and exaggerates a bite.
Across the platform, a woman
who can barely support her hair
walks up the stairs
and leans against a telephone pole.
And she arrived at the station in a bus
and she will be driven home in a bus.
And the quiet grows
from out of them like a tree. And through the fog,
the green thunder of a too early tree
sends out its birds, static and singing madly
in a riot against the single cloud of sky.

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