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poet

Joanna Klink

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And I carried to that emptiness
between us the birds
that had been calling out
 

all night. I carried an old
bicycle, a warm meal,
some time to talk.
 

I would have brought
them to you sooner
but was afraid your own
 

poem


STARS, SCATTERSTILL. Constellations of people and quiet. 

Those nights when nothing catches, nothing also is artless. 

I walked for hours in those forests, my legs a canvas of scratches,

trading on the old hopes—we were meant to be lost. But being lost

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