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82 Swallow So ignorant of the world I think it’s pleasure first that makes it dip hallucinatory arcs across this foggy, close-cropped field and not the insects wet legs kick up— Here, and almost here, these sharp darts that stop me in my tracks: poised, senseless to its direction skimming just below, the lingering white only it sees through and negotiates where I am less than a stone to it, less than a flea in the dun belly flashing under the slick blue back— Wings clip the brief air between us, scythe the sweet middle of the field where sea mist seeps its yellow curls, the step ahead and behind me blurred to the same cold capacities: somewhere a twist of fence, a scar of ragged earth a truck tore open to work itself free. Dark shank of hair gleaming in the wet, skin frozen to the bone, a pair of deer feeding at the wild last hedge of raspberries. ...

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