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Geese at Midnight

as if a feather

quilt exploded,

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a white you can't

see in the dark

but breathe, a

wind of white

rose petals,

wave of fog

in the shape of

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flying things.

Like radio

voices on

the pillow,

lulling, keeping

what's ragged

and tears at

bay, the geese

pull sky and stars

in through glass,

are like arms

coming back

as sound

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