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78 dead metaphOr: sunliGht after mOrninG thunder The pristine azure, sudden ineluctable, edible blaze. Darkened boughs against exhalation of green. All the old materials sharpened by depth of field— squirrel screeking, cardinal and jay, titter of goldfinch, chickadee, baby wren. Water still dropping, predicate and forceful, into stippled shade. Yadda yadda, you say, a lost cause, to the wild rose fully offered, honeysuckle, common privet, umbrella of clematis opened late. You’ve stalked and talked this landscape to death, until you’re either red in the face or blue, yet beckoned over drowsing dog, through storm door, out of slippers and into it, the spongy, muddy mess, stalks shining between toes, solar fire on face, neck and arms, arching to that trite rock, feels too damned good to make it anything at all except what it marvelously is, too late to salvage syntax or fail again to name it, whatever the hell it is. Be grateful, baboon. Big dumb mammal. Breathe. ...

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