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 A Piece Of The Storm by Mark Strand 
						For Sharon Horvath
 From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
 A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
 And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
 From your book, saw it the moment it landed.
 That's all There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
 To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
 A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that
 Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
 Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
 That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
 "It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."
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