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By Force


Look—they're turning: how gracefully each
           moves, in the surprise of woundedness—and,
where arrow meets flesh, the blood corsaging . . .

           Revelation, jackhammers, love, four hooves
in the dirt. How speechless, now. As if always
           light must wed the dark, eventually, and the dark

mean silence. I disagree. Touch not the crown— Don't touch me—


Carl Phillips

New England Review

Volume 35, Number 1 / 2014


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