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Poetry

Orphan or heir-apparent,
did it plummet from heaven
or work its way up
through the fissures of the earth?

Was it chipped from a dollhouse window
or a diamond fjord?

If the deepest bass virtuoso
intones the nethermost D,
will this sliver fly off to reunite with its source,
setting off a flood of healing
in the vitreous universe?

Or will it one day split open,
send out hypertrophic sprouts and runners,
glazing the world
with a lamina of leafage?

Must such a marvel
be destined for marvelous things,

or might we yet hope
that exile will abrade and dull it,
rendering it painfully
visible at last?


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