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Poetry

They sound freshly wounded,
weeping their few
cracked notes. Lullaby

to the fly in the web,
the torn gazelle,
the Ice Man

with grass in his shoes
fighting sleep
on the glacier. Listen,

they chorus. Here is
the underlying
sorrow of the world.

In the belly.
In the rock. In the black
holes of heaven

and the sea. Leopardi,
drunk with melancholy,
would have loved

the North American
mourning doves
cooing

where their treasure is.
He’d have warmed
to their solemnity,

their blink and croon
charmed by the light
of dying stars.


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