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
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