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Poem: [Untitled 323] 

It all seems new; the sky hasn't been this color since Antietam.

And everything is calm.

Underneath the bridge, I've mistaken grocery bags for geese again.

I make a list of basic human graces and pet peeves hoping to encapsulate a definition, like air

for the body I want to fill.

There was once obsidian night, the evergreen bayonets

of a darkness once lost on me perhaps,

mistaken again.

Through the window you pointed to the unmoving moon—almost spherical,

having lost just a bit—our imperfect missing host

left on the dark open palm which remains

uneaten.

"She's waning," you say.

—A. J. Porras

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