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Irvington, October
by Elizabeth Archers

The sound of rain
takes time to irrigate
the mindís landscapes
where storms rim the West Hills
in dark blue on the low sky.

You hate sunsets
because of the sadness gathering
so we walk outside after
the blunt percussion
of your memory
lets up a bit,
walk around on uneven ground,
one or the other of us
more stable on our feet
so we take turns
holding one another up,
sometimes with hands clasped.

In the night neighborhood
ghosts in the trees
toys left on the grass
pumpkins leer from porches
at the awkward pace
of a clumsy, incongruous couple
ducking in and out
of the fog and rain



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