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December 2010
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February 2011

January 2011

closing in on a poetry to please disappear

Let me tell you. The heat of one deer run up against night signals troubling through the branches into home.

There has to be the lover or beloved. A love. 

You would have to be. A deer. In its running past. Calling the dry birds back. We'll stitch them to the inside.

So you can't climb out the hole. So wait to fall out. Wait for it.