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Spring forward, fall back.

I don't know if it is the right season, but I put some loam out and threw down some seed. Part of a fawn appeared, confused, or had an idea above moving that was unsettling to her. I tried to whistle but got stuck and then turned away as though I were needed urgently, the ice cream was just cream, flowing. I stood at the window for what seemed a decade, not one of the big ones, but a tiny decade the size of a tick, and as mean. Someone was having a yard sale, or a garage sale, maybe it was a tag sale -- anyway, everything was going, the usefulness of the material had drained away. Cars slowed down and waved. Other, almost recognizable, people dropped what they were holding and walked into the wooded area behind the barn. Perhaps they didn't understand the New Math, the one without numbers. My lawn stood up and sat down again. It felt to me as if it were almost recess, like I would be allowed to kick the gravel in a far corner of some supernatural playground any minute. Will you accompany me to that beautiful island? It's a dreaming school that I long to forget.
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Author:Tate, James
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jul 1, 1993
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