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Against The Bark


Make me wood.  Make my skin hard-edged and craggy

Make of my heart a dark, lone


splinter, the leaves of this sugar maple, my green

armor in July, and let my roots be taken under the earth


on which our bodies, years before,

once lay. Teach me the trick of not-being,


of wrapping myself in the arms

of absence, make of my mouth, a half-smile


numb as a berry long fallen to the ground.

And bring a sparrow to swallow it whole.

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