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Plucked off for people to walk on;
Dying copper or maybe
Bronze
And silver in their palms,
Warmed in a microwave to sound like
Singing as life shatters,
A hatchet mark on a tree that will,
When you crack, try to seal it later
As the heart of a person with
Sweet juices rejected by paint on the asphalt,
The keening of scattering glass
Crushed
By whichever has a sweeter voice, a deeper, more lovely cry,
Attempting to heal with every leaf
A barrel in their throat—
Where I pretend bells are like windows



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