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After Jane Hirshfield’s ‘Once, I’

Once, I
slept on the flowers of the night sky
worriless, shameless

Ifness, lunging, scaring.
I, cliffhanging,

a star, dead as its light,
its last,
hit on the neck-nape of time
of a bird of north,

or a lover so happy
cries, behind the eyes
being done for like
the neck photon

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