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Always answers are at hand, flight's body above sere grass, or the slow feet of the blind working sun white mysteries of sod, roots, trunks of ash; the neutral winds are alive enough to spin in milliseconds exact things lifted into words. All birds a-wing know the bordered fields of sightlessness, those places which shape my pond edged steps: their music draws across the lawns like ghosting stars. 
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Copyright © 1998 Stephen Kuusisto. |
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