51



Our little losses just the cheer of crows; / a laughing sheen on the face of the cliffs; / the wet limestone, gray and white, cold as eyes; / the still dance, wind, in wait, in praise of winter. / There's no siren.  There's no siren, blowing. / We are given unto autumn's bargain. / Our lives of snow to fall upon the sea. / Nobody turns back to home on the grange. / We are the break in years, the splinter / between December and January. / We're the shaky step into the skiff. / We're the five fingers in the puppet's clothes. / We're the promise.  We're what the liar knows.



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