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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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