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37 SUMMER’S ORNAMENT You hang from the willow Claw caught, your wings Half open in a sigh. You’ve been like this for weeks Not rotting, not slipping away Like a decent thing in the night. Even the early storms Will not budge you, Nor waves of this new heat. You hang there, frazzled globe Drawn tight to your frame While your mate flies past. Starling, what saint hangs in you That when the yard light thrums on I see you, blacker than this hour, Recount my sin. I, who will not Move you, will not put you In the ground, I, a thief, The killer of you Who watches on as you shimmer, Ember, negative flame. ...

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