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Hear, Here, the Goldfinch at the End of All Fence Lines:



Autumn cries its hues, both burnt and hurry-harried –
Fox kit’s brassy exile-cry wassailed on spring’s wind.

Here, too, sloughed straw is drawn out and quartered, carried
Houselessly by goldfinch through canebrake, bracken-shinned,

Where crows shelter in a famine-branch of absence,
Tarry in tarry clumps amid tree-limbs’ smoke-pitch.

The gilded goldfinches flit in flame-tipped chevrons,
A panoramic whole, yet more a part by much

Of house-search, home lust, at the end of all fence lines
Where weathered wood of corn-crib and tobacco shed

Posts fascinations, falling slant with manqué rains
At the end of all fallow fields, marking what could

Make the finch declaim with barren bran, golden tare,
Harvest’s hatch, winter-cinched, abiding by its fire.