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Gift
What are those
worlds called
that snow when you shake them?
Or like a music box in which
the ballerina spins
as the roof opens out
into another
and the air itself
empties
of everything but her slow turn
and the beat she follows back
into the recess of the caesura --
where she pirouettes
with the fold of earth...
things move unhurried
and she in her dress
in light snags upon opalescent flakes
revolves into a tune that remarks
of an old memory...
a face pale like
porcelain,
like the birches receding up
into the black and white
of the wintered hills,
she in the foreground
caught mid twirl...
the trees, shaken of their leaves,
plié to a rise from the earth,
a controlled relevé
into a plated gray heaven
absent of cloud.
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