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The Dim Schizophrenia Of Owls

Angels are brewing sleep
pillows weep stellar jam

here in a tangle of lawn
misnamed tanagers fold leaves

calendars slip filled with thorn
my mind puddle mends

a clique or brood of dream
at that midwinter height

heaving honey sleep, shake
the cusp of dark notes

as politicians sit in the shadows
tuning lies.

by Larry Sawyer

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