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Warm September wind, sunshine,

manure drying itself in round piles

you can kick, and dissolve into dust.

The sweet smell of it, the same

as it smelled thirty-three years ago,

at Harold Johnson’s place.

I breathe in memories like air,

close my eyes and see them all

alive again–laughing, telling jokes

about how they wanted to come back,

When they die, as a young girl’s horse.

Everything is the same.

Everything is completely different.

More and more, I’m somewhere

between this soft day,

And memories

of this soft day some place else.

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