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WILLIAM PALMER
The thaw The pine - a drunk in fine exhaustion - leans out in frost, defying gravity. The birds come back, regurgitating legends to their young.
The bay expands. In the valley behind TVs flicker like slow fires all morning; kitchen windows open; calls from the near spring.
A drink in my hand I walk below a white arch - two rooms knocked through. In their suddenly connected country ants walk under the snow.