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Amy Orazio

Wait Here

 

In that a wolf prowl

lands north before it laps

October’s cadence

senses my black eyes

in the dark

but not black enough

In that an Indian summer

sears a latitude

whose tongue

a cartographer 

of the San Gabriel Mountains

In that the pines hold

sienna the smell

of careless birdhands

me disparate trails

wait here but don’t waste

here like them the difference

in that flaw my country

my flag is near

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