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This village is even dreamier than the original.
Who, for instance, would reproduce the old snakelike impressions of our bodies
In the amber grass, or reenact us, in a thunderstorm, flinging our undergarments
From a cliff? It was lifetimes ago, those times.
Now we cast no shadow over the plucked swans, and are left to sleep in corners

Like a mound of coats. The path to our rowboat is even narrower, dustier; gnats
Blot out the sun. I suppose we can float about
Twirling our parasols, singing “Night & Day,” but does anyone recall the lyrics?
Here: take my hand. These weeds are known to caress one into a witless reverie,
And we are dying for the goldenness of home.

Jaydn DeWald is an MFA candidate at Pacific University currently living in San Francisco. An Associate Poetry Editor for Silk Road, his own work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, Columbia Poetry Review, The National Poetry Review, West Branch and Witness, among other journals.

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