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Across THe worLD a Man IS LIFTInG HIS Gun Across the world, a man is lifting his gun, and there is nothing I can do but sit, here, the grass limbed with shadows from the trees, the sounds of birds overlapping the sounds of other birds-bleat, chirr, trill, caw. Thin-legged and slight-breasted, hope is one ofthese, chimerical, set all morning the voice to swinging out, swinging out, since only the silence is a chaos, laced from the sun. I hear, across the world, who is alone: alone is a gun pointing in his hands. What would tell his fmgers No ? Surely-this, the salted glen of notes risen from throats smaller than a thumb. It's become important: their noises, their calls gently orbiting each other, revealing their spaces in the sky: We are here withyou. Redbird, grackle, chickadee, bobwhite, nnch. Together say Existence. It trips nnite from our openings, and O-how the calm seems stuck here, tall stems musky dry, crepe myrtle blooming fuchsia and the chimes of someone's heart so loudly means, indeed, indeed. ...

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