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At sunset, bending out the window

Knowing, sidelong, fields in the avenues

My eyes burn anyhow but I don't care, I'm still reading

that Book by Erin Mouré.

How she makes me ache! She was a creek's companion

lost south of St. Clair, a walking prisoner in the city's freedom.

But the way she saw houses,

And the way she stopped short to look in the avenues,

And gave herself to things, in the same way

You'd gaze at trees,

And lift eyes down Vaughan Road to see where you're headed,

And notice small crocuses pulse in the ravine.

She never speaks of that ache of sadness,

Never admits it,

Just walks downtown as if in a creek bed catching minnows,

Sad like flowers pressed flat in books

Or plants pressing up green, in yogourt jars ...

III At Sunset, Bending Out the Window

Erín Moure

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