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A sound.

Nine poets born and one steady drip. It might be sink or toilet; blood from the ear, a blue snail wending and cooling its twilit trail; the lips of leaves or the slap of the swallow heading toward mud.

It could be the clock of the dying man.

Is it the tap of high heels descending? Is it the empty reel of the movie clacking? Or the invisible tool nailing and prying each powerline?

It is the threat of the neighborhood, the smacking mouth beneath the thief's mask, the twitched eye, doom. It ushers in the still.

Mouse of uneven stir, remnant of man half out of bed, his gaunt slipper caught on the iron fret, his blood missing a vein, his sail scant, too thin for all the wharf's wind.

Is this the drip of pipes, the drip of what we've made our masterwork? Does it forward the night? Is that the sound? Does it save?
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Author:Lynch, Alessandra
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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