Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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—past the dry-mouthed gooseberry bushes, except everything
was dirtied by rain.

Over again, you paint the magpie
we found on the wilting grass, and I mistake its feathers for wings,

your brushstrokes for a shaking wrist. 
Notice: this is so much farther than you ever thought

to find me—my stories from behind your shoulder,
their stiff-footed drumming.

A man cupping a woman’s shallow breast on the street corner.
He fears an unpossessible.

what we do to another.  That we do it until they hurt.  

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