Thursday, October 8, 2009

The Dormers

It is a hot day.
Carl Jung mops the sweat
from his brow with a cloth.
He hands the cloth to you.
"Stop," he hollers.
You turn back toward the garden.
"You forgot the potatoes."
He hands you a burlap bag.
The sun slanting through the dormers
multiplies the stairs as you climb.

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