slim twenty-two I have
known only so many. I
cannot cover a catastrophe
much. We will sing it again.
She bays her way into
a home, a refuge for
a recluse, or some. This
winter I will write a poem.
The edges have been lopped
off. I held the note up under
a light and trimmed it. An
unnecessary maneuver, but
the degree was such I'd sooner
scrape my fingertips than watch
the moon go down.
We will sing it again.
There is no consequence.
We will sing it again.
-the ambassador
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