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by Kate Kingston
for Garcí Lorca

One moon left to fall
from your voice of candlesticks
and pomegranates, to hand
over the pencil you write with,
one moon full of persimmon
to break open the shower
of trinkets into the cobblestone ear
of the broom's whisper, to tattoo
its lip on sky's shoulder. One voice
full of spiders and thistle left to harbor
this stolen button, this dime,
this broken comb.


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