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[oheunoia.livejournal.com]

After Work
by Gary Snyder

The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog

I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
        on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
        hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
and the wood

we'll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
        drinking wine.