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arcs of song
plow over the dust clouds
shaped anemone fingers
sleeping into the air
torpid wrecks who wear bihuman faces
talking an airplane's carcass
over a kitchen table
while eggs sleep broken brick
and hedge to words

Limbs a-tangle with the movements
they sing rootward
to the back of all yards
yolks popped on branching forks
the bookend holidays
that rail and end
in empty bellied woods
fraying sideward
this shard, that wayless way