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3.8.10

By Putah Creek, (poem)

the moon got stuck in spades of light
swooning from the branches of oaks
like mustard seeds dancing in my hair.
We waltzed the glow around a rope,
which Jeff flicked on the elbow with a blade,
and made spin up like a dandelion,
a cup, a flare of cotton firework--
all this work before a wedding;
all the butterflies must be sleeping.

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