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Pull up the dress
of the waters. How clear it is, how small bright fish swim across
your chest. Now let the day dim and the edge of the sky turn green
then rose. Let the sun sink behind the horizon like a coin into a
slot. And let the jackpot dark come on with its millions of stars,
huge bowls of them emptying over your upturned face.
Wear in your ears the evening song of the wren. From now on, as you
tilt your head left and right before the mirror, there will flourish
these tiny shinings. Notice how the wren’s bourree enters—the
hammer and the anvil and the stirrup arranged on each side, like
girls at a dance, to take it in.
Decorate your shoulders with the bream in the pond. You can feel
their flat leaps like epaulets as if you’ve been promoted to a rank
you could not have imagined, in a military to which you did not know
you belonged. Soon you will be striding out to sweep the unhappy,
like fallen leaves, into piles, to say, fish flapping at your
shoulders, just look at yourselves, red and orange and yellow,
like fires without a match, just look!
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