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—so you canter close
to the roadside, hay in your hair &
rotten crocuses. Even
in all this wind, horses crying

& chickens stuck to chicken
wire, you whisper. I don't know where
the whispering is—

The pale wheat moves like gazelles
on my legs & you break the wheat
something to say.

There is something to say.

Small dogs puddle under me & I try
not to smash them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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