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Pocahontas iii.
empty ingots of bone against bone clock against wave, bass note against . . ? No one answers. Hello? she calls into the poem. It’s vast and deep, there in her hand. There are lifetimes wriggling inside. Zygotes. Amoebas. She leans down, listening. Ah— hear that? A low howl, as of distant wind. A dry ocean bed, nothing but waves of air, cataracts of silence. The blunders of whimpering windows.
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