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There is still a gas jet
sound of her weeping
crossing an isthmus
too dark to see
The formidable holiness
of the small balloon
pushed into the heart

There is stillness, a crossing
of the tiny sounds
the flaw of being
so strange
how the train
becomes a name

A crack crosses the ceiling
as we lie on our backs
looking up
A map is so pretending
Its boots fill with rain
two tall mouths
to empty each morning

Two looks fall with morning
sweet wandering
as the children of deer
behind the strip mall
a cleverness
exhausts its guises


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