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  • The coming of winter is the coming of a grey-haired woman
    in the midst of treasure, her hands buried in the golden twine of hair.
    She’s a long December of moon-made rites and mirrors, only her

    sighs keep the cold at bay. Out in the fields, stalks of well-fed crack the spine
    with the length of their demise. We’ve all been promised something.

    The ferns are good for hiding, their slats for speakers.
    The wood keeps falling out of my hands, even as I stroke
    it into song. My thighs know the beat of this falling tune,

    the sound is the sound is the sound whether I walk or scythe or fuck
    winter’s woman into coming. We’ve all been forgiven something.

    Bring me your wheat, your golden heads.
    Bring me your tomorrows, your safe passage.
    Bring me your bellies, empty of sweet.

    The story’s been told wrong.
    I don’t mind the work, but I mind the silence.

    You can gather the grain.
    I’ll be busy
    singing.
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