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The details of a life drop away
And all one is left is alive —
You thought this because you’re tired of winter
And recall how so many mornings in July
Begin with a languid haze,
As if summer, the night before,
Prevailed in a coup of clouds,
Swept quietly down and imposed
Its immovable atmosphere.
Like a year of perpetual day
Is what memory has made of the years;
The blank perspective jars.
Afternoon has burned off,
The ash a cold night with stars.
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