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Mark Murphy
November Ontology
Crisp the silence, red the sun-down
through sulphurous clouds,
past dying leaves, fire and gold.
Now we move between sycamores –
past the fountain
of youth, where college girls hitch up
their skirts in summer –
only a memory now
through the thick veil of November rain,
the sad contact with each human being;
the smug smog of youthful immortality.
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