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77 Apophatic The mind is murky, mottled from too many days of rain. I miss the thrush’s fluting and realize it’s not the earth that’s dying but my attachment to it. The first writing was on the body, then the skin of trees—pokeberry crushed and driven to ink. The fox’s track is delicate, and where the river rose and spilled, it left an unreadable script. What does it mean to take something you’ve not been given? In the dream evening primrose blooms the first yellow of a broken vessel, juniper like the olive skin of those animals we christen. The rattle of the catalpa pod opens into sleep while in the orchard I gaze up at red planets adrift in space. Does the doe dream of this place? And the dog whose hind legs twitch in sleep as he gives chase? The field beyond the orchard lies fallow, and orange and black beetles devour milkweed, laying eggs that will hatch on the undersides of leaves long after their deaths. For Chris Dombrowski ...

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