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Dusk that passes through a priest's glove, evening with spring birds, it's good of you to wait like the sister who gives out bread at the convent, where in twilight a line of children stands at the window, the bread a dry rustling from her invisible hands. Each warm bundle includes its black feather, twigs from the first nest. With these you comb my hair, smooth my face, perfect me in secret like the rose that was eaten at dawn by that early Pope whose name I won't remember. 
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Copyright © 1998 Stephen Kuusisto. |
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