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4 b A r L e y - b e e s , b A r L o w o r I made a body but not to be my only other or everything I need—that’s still the acorns my pocket holds and songs I sing when the sun throws a blanket over the ground. I tell a story: The wind, that fiend, unhinged a cherry tree, and as it passed by— a lost cupboard that would be an ark—the rain sang “Take up, take up,” and so I took. A broken storybook, I fable: Home again, home again and Found a baby, named it my own. And if in a dream the body comes to me—dictionary in hand and opened to C— points index, index and falls to a fractured mimicry, I will sing: 5 Foundling, foundling, who made you— you awkward bell and fallen top? And I will sing that I am no better, that I charm ineffectually, leave more often with empty palms and mistake every second for a white flag and new ground. ...

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