GLARE (46) by A.R. Ammons

the yellow leaves left on the
birch flip in the wind like

butterflies trying to pitch: when the
wind lulls they light, then dance

like frit in the sun when the
wind’s shiversome again: if you’re

fortunate enough to live as long as I’ve
lived, you may be as old as I am: awake

some mornings, I don’t know whether
to discharge a gun or an obligation

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