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That girl (she was small)


as only a child does

a character—

of a child

arms out as crucifix

to bear a cumbersome

cumbersome jacket.

How she would love that word,

cumbersome cumbersome

because she’s a child and

it rumbles round the cheeks.

Mother-love is kneeling

affixing zippers and such and

little lark leans in:

eery how more perfect is

a small face than a large

a human than an adult.

Through that glass door only

her breath-fire-fog

spirals out along the winter light

and she will roll away

unknowing; she has left

this place in

new sad silence.

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