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63 Brittle Latch In the reservoir of a lily a heron drinks the picture water first, which might have wet the calligrapher’s pen. The first sound was the pulse point squeezing past his finger. She checked each, for a place to put the ink that would press against the page. Found a young bird she thought might fall. Carried code in her knees, warped receiver bones, their thread-thin scratches, the fingernail of a surgeon. What if I’m allergic to filaments? Don’t wear a veil. When did my hands break? Those are just slivers from birds. How will I find you once the sky gets in? Get into the sky when the birds quit circling. Would you change anything? I would have grown a blister in the desert, for something thirsty. I would have jumped in a still pool to destroy the weather. And wet the heron’s thighs? And watch striders stitch the pond again. ...

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