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The Gnomes
Months pass and still
they come squeezing out --
little deformed pre-poems
between crammed duties
and whatnot, the attention
wrenched this way and that.
Keeping their distance
they look at me
with their lopsided faces, one eye
higher than the other,
in those eyes the light,
a pale, clear green,
of an unworldly
wisdom; they stand there quietly
for as long as I look at them.