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from The Mad Song

Michael Schiavo

      In returning to the bittersweet village, he too was smiling. The scrapyard of knowing. The amorous dell. Her command to park in the new garage, canopied by willows. O the occasion and the place, the unkempt. Something in the how of it. A riddle of complaining oak. Hang me, love, in the dark lights of wild inheritance. We look as we once were, yes. Up now in our room with so much tinder and green. I would crawl a million miles to see that cotton. Come on in the old barn. Come injured, curious, immodest, tremendous.

Michael Schiavo

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