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How We Looked


          didn't matter for once
because we were flying.

          The crows we were
clothed in took a running

          start for the gothic
and that was all:

          tooled doors opened
and waxy air

          lifted us on its current.
And though the jeweled

          light was dim we could tell
the faces we were

          seeing were beautiful,
each with a mouth

          and voice, and there was
no doubt then,

          as our chins and our rib cages,
our wrists and our knees

          rose, that what mattered
was that we obey

          for once, and when
the voices said,

          Look up, Look up,
though rain fell

in our eyes, we did.


Kathy Fagan

Sycamore
Milkweed Editions


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