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How the Age of Iron Turned to Gold

ISSUE:  Autumn 2000
My death makes her way to me
carrying green leaves.

I hear my prayer coming
behind illness, romantic noise,

urgent telephone messages,
alchemical lab results,

like a brook weaving
through thicket.

Water knows the way,
it isn’t lost.

My teacher comes to me
by the western gates,

sound like a bell
in her eyes,

bending humorously to gather
all her tender puppies by the neck.


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