Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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The Wine-Dark Sea (II)

Blank here, grass-cracked
& babbling parking lots.

Nothing moves
to cross the day.

Please, one thing
simply reap a meaning.

This new accent dares
of burnt skin:
call it stammering,
call it self.

To say its name
takes so much mouth

& all I know to say

Toward is true,
neverleave is true
as are the willow threads
the suns shed.  

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