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39 RIME Overnight, each twig has grown white fur, the air so still snow throws into sharp relief each branch plus each branch’s crooked light-bent sense of self, crystallized. Last night, your voice roused my limbs, warm under flannel, licked each branch, split, & hollow, licked into flame the untamed liquids, flammable, spilled down your chin, moisture from the heartwood , risen unseasonably, springing free not just from me, nor your snow-cloud juices just from you, no—these waters rise from hot springs at the center of the sacred, from the little stone overlooked, often, plain little stone where vibrations from each life ever lived, each life yet to be, gather. ...

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