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number 55
P O E T R Y by Elisabeth Murawski |
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| On Arriving and Departing The moon is an ellipse half-hidden by a silo. Dry leaves rasp like paper. I hold a microphone close to the calf in the cow's belly. Where is the one pure thing? A train whistle wraps itself around the wooden house, around the calf's heartbeat. Am I leaving the farm or arriving? The red of the barn in moonlight turns gray as the devil's face when he sniped at Schubert writing the four impromptus. |