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voice of the sun With those in mind leashed to cause or tethered to heredity, I look to the sun. The same sun, swollen with heat, that plumpens blackberries and licks the ground of frost. Too many; their numbers grow like fevers, still I need to know their faces; the boy in the bakery with once-moist eyes, the mother, chin resting in her baby's hair, the old man on the bus. The days come with force majeure, and the electric forsythia and mourning willows carry the same sounds; the voice of the sun, and that of all gods, wailing together. |
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