"Already the crowds seem darker and more hurried
and the slang grows stranger and stranger,
and you do not understand what you love,
yet here, rounding a corner in mild sunset,
is the world again, wide eyed as a child
holding up a toy even you can fix.
How light your step
down the narrowing avenue to cross streets,
October, small November, barely legible December."
An Except, by James Richardson.
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