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Two Poems by Angie Macri
Sunset Cue It is the tyrant’s custom to wear the sun under his wings, to show the sun when challenged in the pulse of aerial display. His tail cuts, not as the state cut the route through the forest between the city and dam but as space cut and come together without a seam, the kind of cut that heals itself without a scar, absolute rule which he reveals. He sits on the road signs (for curves, for speed, use…
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