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The Weight of the Real The heron standing in the upland marsh is not lonely, wrapped in its own blue thirsts, but I, watching it, am. So she once curled into herself in the empty ward, lay like a distant island. Touching her arm, incredibly soft, what my hand said to me or said to her missed of her pain, her privacy. Not to be bullying into her sleep I go, compassion a dry closed door, holding a memory of her warmth, not mine, not knowable, but real, God’s maybe, holding us, and each on the deep cold waters darkening. The heron leans toward me— his long blue legs, blue beak, stale breath of his belly folds, eyes blackened with day-light— “the weight of the real accompanied him like an illness”.…* *quotation from Spender on Rimbaud The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 15 ...

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