sunlight through
beech trees and shrubs
greening the
sparse arrangement
of chairs and orchids
cushions and brass
shelves of ornate
glass and creamware
coffee too weak to
sputter verse before dawn

there was a time when
you would meet me here
conscience purged
a dance of string
the puppetry of

now the leaves
from copper beeches
fall too early in
the season

and you will never turn
your face this way again
you know I look too deeply
and you know, I see,
what I see


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