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American Air  

A friend writes from Brooklyn: 
white cinders smaller than snowflakes. 

Dust. Soon enough, 
a filthy wind will blow me out of my skin.
What I know for sure is a short list: 

in October, 
there is no warning of the weather except the weather. A sudden breeze, 
desolate as a mother-in-law’s eye

in December, 
crows winter-over 
wearing only black feathers; 

In August, 
the Persiads flare
into the atmosphere, into September. 
                              for B.T.

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