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bricks and tar down the slopes
burning off the ice
and replacing the snow
with spring
something like it.
hands in the hands of the nurse
what does the rain carry down
the grey slopes,
some bad news
all the memories in the topsoil
everything fathers hid away to
show their sons.
I can’t figure out the time
but I don’t really try
I can’t stomach
looking at the clock
if I replaced it with spring hands
and a cry for the hour I’m
supposed to wake, well how’s that go?