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It Was the End of the Sixth Day

ISSUE:  Summer 2010

It was the end of the sixth day,
ripened from violet shadows
to violets of light.
One was tired from the height of so much day and
the strait of so much night.

The air was still violet and scentless,
when from Nile’s seaweed came my hair
and from Marmar’s oyster shells my teeth.
Ecbatana caves were no darker than soil of my larynx,
hills of Allivarz no darker than silt of my heart.

Brain became my first uterus and on the seventh day
the air grew fragrant
and the summer fuzz on the cheeks of a peach was perspiring.


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