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The inhuman.

Wrung from the sponge of the heart, cupping that faceful of love dream, those palmsful of ocean, salty tongues, we might think it cares for us, that moment it holds and fills us. Then, dissolution. Then it turns out to be careless of our highest and holiest, and it is vaster.

Meanwhile, a river; meanwhile, it speaks nearly inaudibly its one syllable. I grieve at the river impacting the back of my hand, hollowing out my palm.

I want to praise a hand that gave the inhuman lovingly to another (fingers like tears; palms full of shoulder and air), but I can't.
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Author:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
Previous Article:Lovers.
Next Article:Deafened.

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