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H OM E W R E C K E R
Aspens You would say they are white They are not white And their secret is A private cleanliness You would say the sound Their leaves make is slight It is not slight the sound Of the leaves is the sound Of very small stones Rolled under the tide A sound that’s kept you awake On certain nights haunted As if on a back stair Or here at the window Drawn again by the meadow Thin transparent cold