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Kay Vibbert A swan gestures across Cedar Lake, his throat full, an eyelet path before him. Branches bend low along the water, heavy from winter's mistaken return. Eve turns dark as muscadine. I open the window toward the hills, and hear paper chains rattle apart from madness. I step inside you, far off, a ghost. swagger toward the sounds of leaf smoke breathing, the hiss of rain over the eaves. |
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