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The Flood The cypress-fingered women of Europe remain, again outside their fences in the criminal air-- their fallen faces wearing lambswool, mourning and tears. They wait like mosaic crosses, hands tightly frozen, raised to bleed. They watch, gazes collected sincerely upon an abandoned swan. Come in, tie knotted silks on shaved heads, on thread-cuts reflecting paper lanterns. The surface is rising with each black hem, feet by feet. |
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