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                                    Rebecca Morgan Frank

Subterranean springs lace even the cities,
                         spurt from deep crimson dirt
                                                and dark bristled roots.

Trial and error of the dowsing stick leads
                         to bird bodies
                                                landing on black puddles.

Water is everywhere in this drought.
                         Underneath the jack-hammered concrete, 
                                    blinking city buildings, and cars.

Like an astral landscape below us, these constellations
                         of waterways. A finite space, echoed—
                                    reflection with the cover on.

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