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Untitled 7

I compare my hands to what I imagine thought might look like

when suspended in fossilized amber,

release the captured mosquito from my closed hands,

string dimming gas lamps between rain and fall,

and insert into the knife’s pale origin—

a twig warming the clutching hand.

from Flood SongFind it in the library

Copyright © 2009 Sherwin Bitsui
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

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