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Number 9: Winter 2013

Five Poems

Kate Behrens

If We Sell the House

Seen through an open sash,
what remains (of me, dust),
the lime against cloud cliffs
this quiet August harvest
in a heat-wave’s 3 a.m,
is a mere splash of leaves,
the blue cows’ breaths and
waking eyes blank drift
slow separating
all enmeshed, silvered
by a bright moon.