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Poetry

is holy, molten in its calcium
cup, sun and moon mixed, hot
in its prison, cells’
incentive to fuse firing, no
second to loiter, calling
now to a predator’s jaw. How
the genetic vow is kept.
Jellied not-yet,
hard as thought becoming
belief, little o
in hope or love, un-
umbilical one, cast into air,
mother gone, father
long gone, uh-huh goes your
heart, that dummy yes said from
a soul agog at such splendor.


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