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of under the ash and so, as they say, weeping. Along a river.
Along another vein, arm, hand, listing the light inconsequential,
factored by duty and done up in the new winds. In the temperature
washing the orange out of it with shades of blue. Then paler blue
then something approaching white or nothing, the page, the bone
gone back to the originary plan of an aviary built with mesh siding,
illusioning the possibility of flight. Soft walls, soft keeping
us here
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