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Greg McVerry



Autumn sun slips
 hiding in hills
holding a forgotten valley

 A crescent moon rises,
slivers of hope fading
a top a
  New England town

Flickering street lamps,
  dance in puddles, rippling
upon uncounted potholes
but washed away as
Lights of patched
  up Colonials
click on trying
  to fight
Winter's Approach.

In growing shadows
  factory windows
lay bare
 stripped of light
And above
At the peak
of Hill Street
  clinging to a branch
a lone batch of leaves
watches over
it
all,
withering
  away
in newly
spilt
  moonlit
dreams

CLMOOC

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