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Pat Anthony
Reading Margaret Atwood’s Snake Poems
only proves the snake is
woven twine tossed onto shivering
grass below the oriole
a streak of iridescent orange
smeared across a gray cloud
more is less and
less may or may not be anything more
than what it is
the white crowned sparrow
held in my hand yesterday
is but a handful of death
today hollowed out
the hearts of both
bird and holder
until it takes
a certain effort
to toss it under
trembling cedars
shake off the memory
the ants.
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