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But

is the small way to begin.

But I could not.

As I am limited to few

words at command, such as wanblí. This

was how I wanted to begin, with the little

I know.

But could not.

Because this wanblí, this eagle

of my imagining is not spotted, bald,

nor even a nest-eagle. It is gold,

though by definition, not ever the great Golden Eagle.

Much as the gold, by no mistake, is not ground-gold,

man-gold or nugget.    But here, it is

the gold of    light and wing    together.

Wings that do not close, but    in expanse

angle up so slightly; plunge with muscle

and stout head somewhere between

my uncle, son, father, brother.

But I failed    to begin there, with this

expanse.    Much as I failed to start

with the great point in question.

There in muscle in high inner flight always

in the plunge we fear for the falling, we buckle to wonder:

What man is expendable?

He Sápa, Four

Layli Long Soldier

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Poem of the Week

Dzvinia Orlowsky

Wine of Angels

translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets