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64 Cloak Another of the disappearing words, as if forests walked to a great hilltop, were transported upwards. Not into the clouds that also leave the sky, touched with rose, a little gold, but the way that language has with extinction: cloak, once a symbol made from dignity, a word also cloaked. A sheath and some protection, a thief inside a shadow—cloak—someone covered, deep in knowledge that belongs to her alone. Threat, disguise, cloak like green that climbs through grass. Cloak could thrive on contrast: black and yellow, blue and white, brown and almost red, a robin’s brighter down marking off below, or the pale underbelly, camouflage, but the shape of someone-in-a-cloak also disappears. From the precipice it shifts through those trees vanishing although it’s wide daylight. Nonetheless. Better to be gone, if even then there’s wind sometimes we need: as someone loving touches you, not to take you in, fingertips, but drifts along your cheekbone with her nails. ...

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