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[38] M O U R N I N G D OV E S They sound freshly wounded, weeping their few cracked notes. Lullaby to the fly in the web, the torn gazelle, the Ice Man with grass in his shoes fighting sleep on the glacier. Listen, they chorus. Here is the underlying sorrow of the world. In the belly. In the rock. In the black holes of heaven and the sea. Leopardi, drunk with melancholy, would have loved the North American mourning doves cooing where their treasure is. He’d have warmed to their solemnity, their blink and croon charmed by the light of dying stars. ...

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