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By Denise R. Weuve

The feather that fled from a crow before the pellet clippedthe heart.

The perfectly perforated air between bow and violin strings.

The 5:58 a.m. shift from mourning firmament to acceptance vapors.

The return envelopes sent with bills that couldn’t be paid.

The photograph of a man checking his Corinthian watch—forever 7:17.

The fine lines of smiles that can’t be remembered or what brought them about.

The petals of a Gilwood Violet, bookmarking the pages waiting for a return.

The scribbling of a man presenting his empty pockets.

The breath still waiting to cleave beauty from pain.

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