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poet

Patty Seyburn

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poem
The pastries were awfully dry.
An absence of hummingbirds—
of any humming, and birds' lead
feathers made it difficult to fly.

Clouds had not yet learned
to clot, billow, represent. 
Stars unshot, anonymous.
Moon and sun indifferent.

No one owned a house, a pond,
a rock on which to rest your head.
No arc, no