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the sun unasked unpaid spends itself
turning the backyard power lines
to lustrous threads for crows
revises the cottonwood's dying limbs
revealing hundreds of glossy buds
and shows the sequences of mimosa
seeds still suspended in parchment
while stroking pine needles to electric hair
tracing lattice and vine walking through
windows to make the houseplants glow
in green translucence warming the white
cat sprawled in a slanting rectangle
swarming in fibers and cloth in the knots
whorls and waves of the table's grain
in the forms and faces in the pictures
on the walls in the light of other times
in time entering every living room
through eye fur feather skin sending
its gift to the concrete porch and
the corpse of the cockroach
the cat left on the floor

Jay Udall is a part-time teacher at the University of New Mexico and a stay-at-home father. His poems have recently appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Louisville Review, Cutthroat, and Coe Review. His fourth book, a chapbook titled Another Anatomy, will be issued this June by Finishing Line Press.

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