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FIELD BURNING With milk of motor oil we feed our weed-and-stick nest. One match and seed burns the wind, catches on shirt cuffs, hatching. Brushing them off all morning we dig line to corral the char. Hair fries. Blisters swell germlike, full of sea beneath fingerprints. The black about to gust, flames grab for the green. At the edge, sprouting stubble and scrappy blooms howl gray at our boots.  ...

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