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Sean Patrick Hill





To the Accompaniment of a Fiddle



So there’s this abyss in the grass,
a flight test of ice.

A word and a word
against me,
a charged sorrow.

Grass is mascara to the burly earth.

Don’t fault
the undertaker who don’t recognize
native clay.

To say nothing of dismay, say little
that’s fatal,

the root’s solution, dear kin.

Dear earth, be generous.

Among some, the wooden,
be at ease,

wax saddled box of a mule.



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