In the year the crows
Learned Bartok, spring never left
For summer grieving.

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The dreams are sweet yet,
Too deep for waking: dawn lies
Turtled in the mist.

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So, it's the frayed spots???
Ravelled threads reveal
The First Shiksa of Lodz.

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Three chains of dew bloom,
Burnish night with spidersilk:
Owl holds the center.

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The heart of time holds
Spring frozen deep in amber:
A gaunt last whalesong.