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14 Will Never Die Out of the blue and into the black: can you see the grain that waves, the most delicate grain of the voice I long for, precarious shaft between melody and speech? If you step on the ice, it will splinter into whorls, then incalculable spokes much as Dust to dust (the preacher said): most artful when it cannot hold your weight. Consider green burial: your coffin’s smallest room will irresistibly dissolve, your stanza lip the snow, and your nutrients plume like a twister in the dirt. His voice is abrading in the shallows of my ear, a seam between quiet and vibrato. ...

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