March 24, 2009
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The rain seems to make a film on the world.

The trees are so obscured by foggy window and film of rain
That they are as the ghosts of trees,
Their deep evergreen needles
Grayed with age.
Grayed with the forgetfulness of age.

The once clear window seemed
To be struggling to keep the light out.
My car seemed to be eating up the road,
The road seemed to be hard nails on the earth,
Earth seemed to be a bruised fist,
Fists seem to be small,
The earth seems to be small,
We seem to be big


Everything seems
to be
to me,
Until I forget
like the trees.

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