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Spring Hunt

By Joseph Milosch

In the distant,
a carpenter pounds
framing nails.
Hammer echoes
like the chops
of an axe into lake ice.
Listening from under
the North-East portion
of the bed,
I become a crab
beneath a rock ledge.
A small spider web
is the shape
of a sentimental
constellation and
behind it is
the crossway
to eternity
when the night
turns the window
pane black.

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