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—5 Red Song There’s a great river running under me a red song for the babies bloody turnips on the infant tree I’m tired of the ruin and the artichokes with their fibrous heads and I could say distantly: the aisles of the world are glutted with blood and rutabagas, and see the entrails of birds hanging from the clotheslines of the rich and despondent, and that would sound like Neruda but not nearly as good, and I’m not caring— just this: they were moving in me there were three BeattyPGS:Layout 1 2/5/08 8:28 PM Page 49 BeattyPGS:Layout 1 2/5/08 8:28 PM Page 50 ...

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