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Year
My heart so exceedingly hard
in the cold yard leaves are breathing
for me and you.

This day so pleadingly long 
the tombs are arching up.

Teething dirt of the dead, 
pray for one nearing

Room 313.

Hear the wheezing tent.
The monitors cannot be believed.
Yet unbelieving, willful, 
swearing in a stillness of hands, 
fluttering in the fold of a lap, 
one dark butterfly unfolds from
its cocoon, from the navel sprout
wings, against the sterile placenta 
beat, breathe, oxygen pure in 
intent so exceedingly hard against
escape, wings scrape while 
the respirator sings, 


Crawl back through, 
pull them off, tuck them 
beneath the liver and wait.

Darkness is best.

Nurses give it reluctantly, 
nothing to do.

Stranger. Brother.

Live. 
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