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Poetry

What’s death? Horizon kept moving
by time & denial? Hank of water hung in air
where love once stood, naked among stones?
His hand there. By which I mean here?

Ink-steeped wolf, boar, fox bristles
lineate feet, mons, breast, heart
in conjuring vista: the fist itching opens.
A graveyard, too, a cosmos of parts;

platitude fog suckling distance
as—wind-chime singing in a squall of snow,
in a coffin too big for its cookie-cut vault—
friend’s body descends. Four men scrambling & a saw

to make box fit hole. What leaves leaves us shaking.
You, moth: undress my face. Be more than made up


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