The second time
the hills have shrunk
the bells are thinner
the hours have fewer colors
it seems that some of the old weather
must have been invented
the second time has white stone gateposts
at the head of a silent pass
under a pillar of sunlight
we see them only once
we see them only the second time
then we forget them
the second time has birds of its own
it has wings of its own
the second time comes with a picture
the second time comes with an old picture
of something not there
it clings to the picture
as to its life
death
begins the second time
with survival
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