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8 finGers PoinT aT The neW Moon risinG It was early evening. I knew no one. Everyone knew her. We knocked on the door. They were not projected home.They were home. She struck a deal with each of them, we crossed a creek, I felt alone, a creek we had crossed before. Caddis husks in a tin can.The sun was starving, mute black.We led ourselves to the door: we were in a valley, plugging our eyes with ointment.We were capable and lathered.There was buzzing in the bulrush, apostate sky (the migrating ones were good and gone). I held the meadowlark thrashing, tight as I could. I thrust it against her breast.The sky was a jet stream. It burst through seams of feathered flesh, a drinking fountain, ice cold, plugged-in, insects.We shut our eyes and listened.Wind in the grass. ...

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