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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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