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26 Winter Dreams Let the deer leave new tracks in the snow. I whisper after them, a whisper half-sinking, half-floating: Then carry your dark bed with you. Your dark hair among the leaves. There, I touched your face and held your eyes shut. How they fluttered and fought like thrushes beneath my thumbs. I wake in darkness again. Listen, the moon is a knife, the empty lot a photograph falling into itself. There go our faces, our children’s faces. I tell the hours like prayer beads, their smaller ringing lost between shadows of oaks and the barn where bats are waking opening their beautiful, unlit eyes. Let the wind sound and resound its soft obligato. ...

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