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E N R O U T E T O B O L I N A S , A R O S E twisting on the gate— not eglantine—should we say “teen” or “tyne”? Keats is our valentine & the cat that bears his name— just past the bridge, the soul flies through when juncos pass like action in a Coen Brothers film, short grasses grow crisp & cry out, we are so close to chaos then; the guests lingered by the red door, murmuring goodbyes after a gentle lunch, your mother’s spirit looked down from the hill, coyote —waiting—near the hen, a shaman with a pollen glance. Hop over the stream in your boots & say, No need to lift the salmon from the stream this year; the waters are full— F O R A M 1 8 ...

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