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Running Late
Last class goes overtime, there’s some delay Getting an ace bandage on an aching knee At the right tension, and then hurriedly Into slow, slow traffic: the last light of day Fades off the clouds above my getaway, Though there at last and running I can see The sickle moon reflected, glittery, Like a surf-perch, in a wave; under the play Of water sliding in and sliding back, This sand is a seal’s flank, the inch-high hiss Of that foam edging somehow throws a black Shadow in this faint light; my emphasis Was haste-blurred on those lines of Herbert’s. How I’d like to have the class back (briefly!) now.
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