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Probably Eros The whole is not his fault, elegy full of small birds and the light starting to starve. Gods are sucking off gods in alleys and I call it spring, a gap between catastrophes until the day I am a tree. Afterward they smoke clove cigarettes. The reigning bees, the rain he’s been, the present tense ripples into form: front yard sunflowers fascinate tomorrow’s August, days dry grass and filled with old news, new spores. Dead ladybugs smear windowsills with laws of wall, good fruit become fuel will turn to ash: turn the latch. (Seasons pass through me like flaws, rattling rust-worn gates, dried gourds.) Birds are chirring branches green and the bees want to have sex with them, all things are full of momentary gods, world-sick with ritual outline and poisoned by too much song. The beautiful boys ruin my sky, raw meat wrapped in silk and spoiled milk: boredom’s ache in the shoulder blades, arms raised in the epiphany posture. 14 Shepherd PG:Layout 1 12/20/06 5:27 PM Page 14 ...

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