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January 43rd

Cara Roets

We have the fine finesse of a killer

Finished in the middle of my first finger.


I wrote a writhing fermata

To withstand the wings of a father.


Trapped the top transparent

Stopped the sap, less solvent.


See red and rolling rushes of river

She’s rivaled, riveted in reluctance.


Commit and call the crows

Crowded caws of old men sunk low.

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