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Thomas Halloran – Ⅳ






After a dawn rain, my arm

stuck out the car window toward east hills

thinks it could run my fingers through green fur.


But later the sunned air smears.

You might hike all afternoon

to reach the nearest rise.


Summer.   Renegade scrub slinks up crevasses

in the slopes parched tan.  Any urge

to tramp there past snakes sunning stills.


Then anyway, sundown.  A single ropy

cloud band crosses the sweet air schooling

tadpole cloudlets north.


Or at least this evening began that way,

and now we meet as we keep intending,

in the dark on our own bed.