There is a solitude about Sunday afternoons
In small towns, surrounded by all that’s familiar
And of necessity dear,
That chills us on hot days, like today, unto the grave,
When the sun is a tongued wafer behind the clouds, out of sight,
And wind chords work through the loose-roofed yard sheds, a celestial music …
Charles Wright: Black Zodiac, Apologia Pro Vita Sua, III from the book Negative Blue, p. 82
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