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    Some Swan Headless Moves Into the Sun

     

    by Catherine Blauvelt

     

     

    Between brussels,

           shoved little moor from above.

     

    My rocket was aimless, the insanity

    of rosemary reaching

    usual things

    with sound, the sound of tents. Enormous

    Flowers sound swan body shadows.

    Take

    Me.

     

    We happen

    below the sun, if there

     

    aren’t thousands guttered,

                             circling above,

     

    soon to hear the black and dalmatian,

    soon to leave one eye for rolling, say a way

    now close in thunder. This vent

     

                                     high sky patterns

     in fits, flower prints,

    private gardens wanting forever on a hill.

     

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