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Haze was

on the horizon

where the tidal river

met the marsh --

beyond the

sure and limiting

gate of oaks,

beyond the




Some were afraid

to pass into

tall fescue

housing Lyme-bearing ticks;

my daughter had already

been marked with the

bull's eye,

and fear followed

the form.


Others cut a path through

to the sloping

pasture of ryegrass.

But it was there my son eyed

a black and yellow spider

crawling on his arm;

and his scream coiled

back to the house

and those who'd gone out

returned, alarmed.


Some day I will risk

to stand in the haze.

I will suffer too

if I have to.

I will surround myself

with what is

opaque and uncertain

if only to get beyond

where I and they and even you

have stood and tried and been.


Tomorrow, if there's haze,

may be my day;

it may, it may, it may.

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