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January 43rd
Cara Roets
We have the fine finesse of a killer
Finished in the middle of my first finger.
I wrote a writhing fermata
To withstand the wings of a father.
Trapped the top transparent
Stopped the sap, less solvent.
See red and rolling rushes of river
She’s rivaled, riveted in reluctance.
Commit and call the crows
Crowded caws of old men sunk low.
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