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November (for Yoko Miwa)

Gordon Marshall By

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On the ebony off-keys, your hands,

your head in a veil of black mist, tonic

to your turquoise evening gown.

Poised as a turtle dove on an eave,

you press an index finger on the ivory,

liberating a passel of scales zooming

down like falcons in a swarm,

your colony and command,

to a Japanese baseball diamond

playing field for a perfect game,

blossoming cherries shaking

their softest petals raining

onto the grass still green in drear

November sunlight, still shining

tinting the mist and the grass.

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