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Yellow ribbons
around town-trees
in the dying
centre of Mount Vernon,
all trade moving
out to strip malls,
are the end of theory:
the signifier corrupted,
imperial markers
of loss in conquest,
or potential of spontaneous
and simultaneous
daffodils sparking
along the road edge,
bordering our place
without fences,
our place that’s owned
by others who let us know
with glances
through the window,
imprints in still
snow-tender grass,
loud smiles
as the oil flows
like Coke,
like Seven-Up. |
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