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New England October. The earth grows ancient.
Leaves fall, and we fall with them,
slowly, almost floating.
Under pewter skies, the small yellow leaves
of the plane trees blaze more golden.
Classical. The crowded
streets are quiet, introspective. Leaves
cluster, flattened in low relief across
dark, rain-soaked
pavement.
Something European. An imaginary
Paris. Intellectual schoolgirls, hugging books,
walking under the high
somber stone spires, singing
out of eternity. Tremor of old
young love.
And then I saw her again,
moving ahead of me up the street, pigeon-
toed, a little
slowly, tentative, wearing some autumnal
shawl. Walking alone, toward
Italian class.
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