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poet

Robert Gregory

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poem

A slow summer morning:
new light through a veil of green leaves, young leaves
that vibrate and tremble. The shadows are blurred in this light—
shadows once ourselves, they say. Clouds and a girl in
green trousers, three birds on the blacktop confer, between two
buildings a vacant lot, a

poem
A drift of torn cloud, daylight
that’s open and clear.  The grackles
wheeze and groan like old
retired gamblers as they wander
and gather.  A sleeping rhythm
in the day, and then sometimes
the wind comes through and makes 
them lift and fall, the crowds
of leaves that were motionless
and silent until now