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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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