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Praise Nothing April’s cold snap fools next door’s lilac buds, glistens a white valediction on last night’s roadkill mange. And if this early cardinal bloodying the fence line were consolation to dawn’s jerry-rigged claptrap where cracked curb and razor gravel crosshatch, I could listen to the trash can’s tipped-over plea, the skewbald hallelu of a dying lawn, and praise nothing, let daybreak’s brokenness catch like glass shards in my throat and not swallow.  ...

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