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Ann Fisher-Wirth BETWEEN MERCED AND MORNING
In yourself, you're nothing-- who buys me a drink are my father's; the thin flaked gold
spells me his name. therefore I will lie down with you,
because when he died ... ah,
he is smoke and fog and starlight.
where my breath catches, where my heart
my mother bought me. Put down your glass,
on the fold-out berth, as dark fields,
All night the train will fall through California.
I will kneel on my bed as the miles pulse
by, |
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