FOR d.a. levy
Oh little duck squat in your beer.
Such raggedy mornings lope up the hill
and empty their pockets into my room.
I remember April on the coast of France
Wind coming in over the tops of waves
and pushing against the shore.
And now this soft light moves
in and out the door wearing the sun
like it was a gunbelt, aiming the mind
of the child at the stars and firing.
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