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172 | Adriana Socoski A doe forages the imagined grass Of a borderless distance. Speech is the tree line of your easy chair— The tipsy slurring of worlds AWOL from fixed positions. A burst of squawking flight leaves an underbrush of talk And the golden moth in dialogue With other iridescent field languages Idles past. Speech is deciduous. poetry At the Edge of Mind Adriana Socoski ...

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