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| Shibboleth Anne Shaw |
A florida I enter in the name sends out its spikes. The name is a pod for the child. See how the self rattles around inside? And such similitude of love. I am hove up. A rope to apprehend. Barnacled. As instinct. A hand to shuttle forth. As if our increment were whole: The pouring-out of waters over stone, a shelf of grasses, pressed beneath the wave. Or gill net, opalescent gill. A substance to refute. Omit the sibling fist of wind, the hook, the redundant gale. Now the tongue will sorrow forth its crisp and bloody pod. The seed is always mute. A cut exposes the wifely pith. |
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