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Library Binding
First published January 1, 1976
Lines
in a new notebook
run, even and fine,
like telephone wires
across a snowy landscape.
With wet, black strokes
the alphabet settles between them,
comfortable as a flock of crows.
Forks
of warm rain
loosen the ice on the pond.
Morning
turns in the keyhole,
the dark gives,
it opens.
My seed
is growing.
A little shoot has pushed through the hard shell.
white sun
black
fire escape,
morning
grazing like a zebra
outside my window.
My flashlight tugs me
through the dark
like a hound
with a yellow eye,
sniffs
at the edges
of steep places,
paws at moles'
and rabbits' holes,
points its nose where sharp things
lie asleep -
and then it bounds
ahead of me
on home ground.