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Nulla Dies Sine Linea

        On my birthday

A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his
one joke. And now, nearer, a murder

answers, chortling from the pale hill's brow.
From under my lashes' wings they stretch

clawed feet. There the unflappable years
perch and stare. When I squint, when I

grin, my new old face nearly hops
off my old new face. Considering what's flown,

what might yet fly, I lean my chin
on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.

V. Penelope Pelizzon


April 2012

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