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KLAASSEN/ BIO
THE LURE
They have been here
before, these silent
witnesses on uneasy wind.
There is no time to be
prepared, only
to bow to it.
There is no nylon
line to pull a flashing
barbed-steel thigh
through green-black depths, no
smell of coffee, gasoline,
and motor oil.
The nervous poplars shift
before the breath arrives,
the sap has fallen
down into their feet.
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