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Page 22

Frances Boyle

Beam —cuts through murk, sifts sediment through fingers suspends it in the sparkle-tour sabre that pierces in moments of splash— tossing water drops so light-tips shine. —reaches for waterstriders’s skate over surface, undercuts frog croak, cicada zing (so few her friends so short her stay) angles at dawn and twilight, turns water into trifle— thick layers that filter one into another.

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antilang. no. 3

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antilang. no. 3