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Part of the Landscape
by Kenneth Gurney
The moon is the moon tonight:
a sheet of marshall music,
a glimmer over the cornfield,
an illustration drawn in charcoal.
The street light does not reflect
off the top of a wool blanket
or the curled figure on grass,
but glints off an empty pint
of Early Times.
There is a ghost that carries
a limp form across the road
to the white church
history stole from
the Dunkards.
There are beautiful circles
cast on the lawn. A rainbow
halos the misty night.
Leaves tremble
above woven fence rails;
feel the cold steel
seventeen inches
below the sod
tangled now, enmeshed
in different roots,
all these years missed
by the treasure hunters.
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