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Spring, Finally

on Stenton. Sunlight
scat-sings along the wet fence.
The city's echo on the red sky
mugging in pooled rain
below two long measures
of birds on a power pole—
syncopated eighths, the opening
of "Satisfaction" in E.
Not-human and unreadable
simulacra—that blurred
mare on the Dixon estate,
a prima donna on a dark stage—
repeat through the tree breaks
in my side mirror then retreat
in the rearview. At the light
Stenton dead-ends at Butler
and on the power lines
swallows are quarter notes
against the blotted blue-black west:
A magnificat on the horizon,
Palestrina dotting the hills,
a dark road before me.

J. T. Barbarese

Sweet Spot
Northwestern University Press

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