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Impossible Kiss.

 In the dry fountain at the center of the Sunken Gardens on one
foot, a woman in a coat of living pigeons holds her breath,
 where always there is doubt, I am not afraid to call this belief. Soon,
 someone already ashamed says, she will lift her arms like a conductor,
and they'll scatter right off of her. We'll be on our own
 But think of them
together this
 second, Lover. I know you, Lover,
a piece of something about to unhold
but holding while, everywhere, people say,
Look! The world's wings are coming apart. 
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Author:Sommers, Ephraim Scott
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2016
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