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Part of the Landscape
by Kenneth Gurney

The moon is the moon tonight:
a sheet of marshall music,
a glimmer over the cornfield,
an illustration drawn in charcoal.

The street light does not reflect
off the top of a wool blanket
or the curled figure on grass,
but glints off an empty pint
of Early Times.

There is a ghost that carries
a limp form across the road
to the white church
history stole from
the Dunkards.

There are beautiful circles
cast on the lawn.  A rainbow
halos the misty night.
Leaves tremble
above woven fence rails;
feel the cold steel
seventeen inches
below the sod
tangled now, enmeshed
in different roots,
all these years missed
by the treasure hunters.


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