The refugee under the window
Sends a poetic beard quivering
The refugee’s own and a poet’s
A September state it has to be.
Poets jump – frisk early dawn
The beards musically trimmed
With tendency to curl at ends.

But we have our own accounts
To settle this side of a window.
Our days are a night’s hibiscus
That pile vertically on our time
Below an untrammelled beard.
There is now no way of knowing
How many are left in the pile.

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