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| The Mill, 1964, Andrew Wyeth |
Boots tramp your arrival.
I am aware of you.
Wyeth stillness lies
in the bodice of my gown.
Unlace the corset with gloved hands
to find the curvature of the earth.
Fire hisses.
Impatient embers
find their way into everything we know.
The room is overwarm.
Gathered branches tumble to the floor.
There is no script, no canvas.
This is no ordinary happiness.
This is no ordinary happiness.
