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Late Aubade

Early October,

Snow over the meadow

The campsite we’d made

At the end of summer

Was somewhere there

Though I never promised,

Did not say I’d return

One way or another

To the Snowy Range,

To the furthest lake: still, black

As a mirror back,

And the entrances closed.

I never said anything

As someone standing in a corridor

Says nothing in a corridor

Or I shifted: near, close

from Clean

Copyright © Persea Books 2011
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Kate Northrop Poems

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