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And the long march calling home the dead
comes to an end :last sunday's newspaper
even without holding it up
hangs midair, faded, lays folded
could use a lamp :a mourner's song

and cadence --once I turn a page 
I hear its first footstep
--don't be hard on the bird.
It must have heard me splashing
making a sling :these pages spread
one from the others, every word
too heavy. There are no birds left.

Funerals have always been songs
and though I still look down
I don't climb into my shadow
to close some cockpit canopy
--have always been in the daytime

so you can make out how the lid
just by laying down
wears away more air --in the half light
you see whose cry it was --you make an arch
cup your hand and your ear
aches --there's nothing except more words
already cold, covered with paper
waiting for its slow roll and the fire.

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