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We are the body moving toward demise;
we are the soul, remnant of another life.

And always, rain tapping on a zinc roof
is the sound of fingers, thrumming flesh.

Always, I return
to the things of this world, tethered.

You, who have come to me
from something, somewhere, I cannot name;

you who have a voice that does not speak
any language I know, yet unfurls its wings,

alighting in each corner of this house;
you who are mine and not mine,

tell me the answers
while there is time.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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