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Bright Waiting

ISSUE:  Spring 1998

Birds return early, hunger
and cries in the maze
of arborvitae: clamor
you understand. Hands
rush and settle. Rush.
String your breath along:
bead, bead. Your skin
shimmers like dusk,
like wings and run off.
All night you clock the sky,
the blue. All night
you crocus beneath it,
you ribbon and tendril.


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