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AFTER WRIGHT AT OHRID / Daniel Halpern There was a beautiful woman you had been walking with at the end of summer above the nameless weeds in another country. The lake there was ruffled, a wind, and below the prehistoric trout hung, slow-moving, their armor reflecting the copper light. I was there with a woman who uttered the language of grief in a tongue you and I will never know. An untroubled wind blew off the water from the Albanian shoreline where guards preserved the unknown. We spoke by a wall overlooking the lake. She would have known that small flower song you couldn't name. The walk to the sights took a long time in the afternoon heat. Then we waited by the water for the ancient outboard to come for us. Motoring back over the lake we could hear smaller fish breaking water, their arcs so short it wasn't possible to see them. This was owr afternoon and evening. Like a black rose the night suddenly stationed itself above us. There was nothing to fear. Did the two of us walk with one woman, 158 · The Missouri Review ask for her name and receive the same reply? If you decide to climb back to this place we'll be gone, but the trout's song will still be audible, their old and constant song without lyrics, without name. Daniel Halpern The Missouri Review · 259 ...

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