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Burlap is the country mouse in me, the kid on my aunts's farms bagging grain and seed and tying them off with that Houdini twist of twine. (My third book of poetry is called Twine.) I love the grit of burlap and its evocations not just of farm life but of far-off places denoted by the text and the faint chocolate or coffee perfume. 
––  Black sun
––  Maple broad
––  Harvest moon
––  Furrow
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