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Blood Orbits

(To Simone Weil)

Prayermower, periodic

comet.

Of the perennial verbs

nothing left

but the stalks. You keep one

step ahead, out-

traveling the snowline,

the interrogation cell,

the gnomon’s testscalpel.

You listen for silence

where the crowing calipers

browse on the zodiac.

You feed yourself

through the pummeled lips

one more night