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The wet earth. I did not imagine

your death would reconcile me with

language, did not imagine soil

clinging to the page, black type

like birds on a stone sky. That your soul – yes,

I use that word – beautiful,

could saturate the bitterness from even

that fate, not of love

but its opposite, all concealed

in a reversal of longing.

from Correspondences / The wet earth

Anne Michaels

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