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After Dürer

As when icy illness ends that you never expected
   Could possibly end, and the terrified body, enveloped
In warm water, reposes, you could kiss every child on the hand,
   Every leaf in the forest, every stone of the wall. A low moan escapes
The mouth. Melancholia, the accompanying spirit, is departing with
   Her ratty wings and crusted eyes, her suitcase of rocks.
A shy, small creature steps trembling from the brush.

Emily Fragos

Saint Torch
Sheep Meadow Press

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