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The wall needs paper or a painting of the sea but the sky folds with jealousy, laces the earth with irises and leaves the yellow glove to the shade. Only morning sees the air man dry on a train made of snow. The trees freeze. The glass scatters into figures. If not here in the hollow moon, paint the fish in the weeds of need, or here where the silver ash sleeps with its sister.

Deborah Brass's poetry has previously appeared in Ploughshares. She lives and teaches in New York City.
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Author:Brass, Deborah
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
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