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R. Tristan DeWitt

It crossed the sun’s path, casting for
Mid-afternoon as we stood around
Pressing against dead centers and
Waiting on who or what
Would clarify the arrangement
Things seemed to have.

(It tugs at us
To be the ones finding out.)

Loss is a ridge
Running behind a row of bunkers
On the edge of a great crease.

An oceanic bitterness lifted us
Like ravens clinging to their reputations,
Lost over an open sea.
Shapes adrift in a sagging
Wash of unflinching color.

An oven left on.
A neonatal circle swarms the tips
Of breasts with need.