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Sean Patrick Hill

 

Unfinished Geometry


Rain from every leaf
stalks
the rows of raw boards.

A woman’s hand
in the air, like a tree, a design pent and shattering,
a rose seed.

Any time is a time to go, I agree.
There are
no more wells climbing out of the ground.

Whose shine do we wait on,
once the wakening touch.

New building, once the heart has felt
unfinished,
do not wait.

There are no more whose light this is.


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