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6 2 f e b rua ry m o o n Over pink eucalyptus leaves after the eclipse the moon’s particular area of having been shaved looked just like your sore throat—! The ancestors looked on, expecting nothing but the real; what more can we o‡er, they asked you, their ideal— f e b rua ry d aw n The near woke to a not-near & in the heart’s brief Vermont a fricative thaw— (The spirits were being extra quiet so fear could finish its satin chasm); out the window: ice-insects in a sequence & children starting for the woods without their violins— ...

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