Letters from the time to come

In the night, the wind soughs;
and the mournful note of a foghorn
cuts through flannels of sleep.

Or is it the sound made by the sea?
Is it my imagination, or have the trees
already lightened, their burden of leaves

this early begun to sift earthward?
Waking after rain to sidewalks stippled
with torn sheets of crepe myrtle

and their nearly illegible writing: one
signature overlaps another, so it is
impossible to tell rune from ruin.

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