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For the longest time my problem

was the city I looked over.

My feet on the bridge-walk

and the taste of wings at dawn.         


I never fluttered. I didn’t fall.

In my dark suit, in winter, there is some [black] art

to how one hides it. Without a face—

I mean, without a flinch.


Then a gold beast came to rest behind me.






     Jay Deshpande

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