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Duende

Something always
refuses. This is

the solitary hour.
Something makes 

a cloth of the moon
and wears its shroud.

And someone carries
the memory of a lover

in the broken-back
cold. And if always

we imagine experience
as the brutal chord,

we sit before
this window and study

the forensics of the sky.
I was born, we say.

As we retain
hidden in our mouths

one small piece
of God’s tongue

 

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