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JAMES MC MICHAEL

JAMES McMICHAEL

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The air binds in sockets

around its few trees,

their arms crazed and spiny.

Tailing from the loose floor

shines where the sky holds it.

For as far as it carries,

the Dead Heart takes its hour

deliberately, this full light

scraping through its washes

and over the tired outcrop,

missing nothing, rooting in all

fissures, wearing it down.