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The Way You Were in Paintings 

Tell me the day,

Your voice: echoed calls

To draw the fetch of sickled fields

And the time of old, warm winds

Cast in cobbled cicada song.

Tell me the story,

Your fingers: places on point,

Gesturing along hot, dry contours

Deft as a shining leaf.

Tell me the place,

Window to a long passed storm,

Etching the ways of things,

On cracked pane and smooth brow.

Oh, tell me the summer,

Long eyes, saddened tinge,

Or softened childhood mirror,

I never remembered

Quite like this.

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Sam A. Flanagan

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