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Circe 432
an uplifting tree in a curved mirage, perhaps a
cold jeweled desire gleaming in yellow air
a dark face, free and waiting there to be
as a slender ladder into water waiting offering
we look up
gulping fierce hope and covering
in shirt of hair without
this humbling we would still be
clowns blinking waiting around our virgin mistress
wearing the slashes of fate like
angry silk
like an excuse for being poor
like a great wide sky
that droops, clumsy, spellbound.
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