Carcinoma In Situ

The rumor lay low in the mountains like fog
On water. In Los Angeles the men
Stand tall, like walking trees in smog,
Where Summer’s branches break, but never bend: 
They break, but think they won’t, these Summer men. 
Yet Winter, like spilled ink, or falling ash, 
Comes down. Unseen there, I see it. Come from
The North, where mountain rumors unabashed
Come down to lower ground, a dying sun
Soft drum rolls in my ear the marching sum.  
     Dark truth is here, undiagnosed, thought not, 
     That blemish on the young, that damned spot. 

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