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Trina Burke

This fletcher, a cherub, an archer
has chosen a roan and named her
Murder, after the crows, for she is
a host. This fletcher,
a rider, a rotor, a sort of gilled gator
now acts farrier, retreads hooves with a clip
and a shove. This fletcher retired,
his shuck and feather replaced
with ruby warble, a signal
again to battle, again to toil. A horse
to an arrow like a hug to a kiss,
prays this aging artisan
for his long-wished armistice. Down
by the river, Murder like a feather
practices the shudder and frisk.

Trina Burke

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