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Shira Dentz



Aubade Oh God 


Green velvet collars stiff around

preening necks in their triangles.

Fate, one might say, is geometric

as an equivalence. 

We want to stay awake, 

its melon green wash 

with another color that can’t be

seen long enough to name. 

Light ringlets are our new juice

at twilight. Mornings, a Rothko sky

spills liquid light from  

and against its bottom edge 

like the inside of a crème brûlée. 

Until recently, earth held an 

equivalence of weight among all

species; whales and insects, for instance.

We all like a good meringue, 

peaks holding stiff as collars, 

or the freeze of a wave.

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