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In this the delicate memory through which the birds haunt
the light, she knows she was not wounded by a rush of blood,
but rather by the flight.
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The faces of the sun remain unaltered across the
seven day forecast.
I am sweat-glued to a poem, looking up at the
wall-mounted TV in a diner in the Valley
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I am no different to her, living seven days ahead
of myself, looking forward to looking back,
as we Irish do so fondly
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