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          By Lynn Tudor Deming

          The fields lie golden-green
          in haze;

          but up close, arson blazes
          in the wheat;
          tiny scorchings thrust
          their hot stain against my eye.

          Hours later I close my eyes,
          and suddenly, they return;

          they burn in clusters
          unflinching under my eyelids,
          flaring up unbidden
          in their exact fire.

          Days later, along dirt furrows,
          strays flutter in the stalks.

          Still I remember how the poppies
          came back,
          their imperishable burn
          rising up,

          that rash of scarlet
          sprung from the cortical bed.

          © Copyright 2004, Lynn Tudor Deming, All Rights Reserved

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Document last modified on: 03/06/2005

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