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John D. FryOneiromancy, Late Afternoonthere is a little boy with a bird looking out the window no longer in the shape become: he who, hard as he tries (hope) still sees the end of a world (he was just a boy every sunset a dusk fresh slit wrist of October sky rivering incarnadine & the boy’s small sparrow until, again, a heart wanting to fly into what?—I no longer remember why—so I ask the boy I had been once ask the heart why the light I know you won’t as word to wound I can feel it streaming through but you probably don’t if you think feel the fell falling inside you must be
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