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– after Rene Marie
It’s sunk if it’s no slow-stone
in the stream. Bolt-blind
thumb if not string
from a stolen set of wing bones.
Crashes burn down his arms
& bleed baths
into ripe peels from a blaze.
A blizzard buckled
the sky & the wind’s palm
nests a newborn calf
aside abandoned north-bound
rails. The night dyes its skin
& whistles thru veins of hair
in clear teeth. Stones fall
slower & slower &
red hooks drift into white beaks.
If it’s a sky full of threes
it’s on its way down.
The warmth of real sickness, a ring
of mud around the flame.
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