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I am writing a poem in mist

Deer eating the fallen apples—later it will snow.

As a child I talked to my hands 

Blind and alone—later it would snow. 

Later night was quiet 

Like a dream of dreaming— 

Boyhood was that way, 

I could look down

See myself asleep at our piano.

When I say I love my life 

I’m playing there, that dream instrument—snow at the window.