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Gordon Kippola


Those branches move in 

ways they would not choose.


There’s blowhard jerks 

at every compass point


jostling for dominance. 

East-southeast form a syndicate,


for today at least. Waves obey.

The moon pulls back. Clouds 


play a mystery game, crossing

the sky in smooth apathy.


It all comes down to this, 

I watch branches from a window.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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