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                                    Mary McMyne

is an insect taking wing from corkboard,
sloughing off formaldehyde, the ping
of pin, the flutter of label to floor. Love
is shattered glass, the hammer I found
in the shed, the seven nights of stars
above the old mound of earth where grass
has just begun to worm up through snow.
Love is the luna moth I found on the back porch
last night, fluttering in the old light trap.
Love is seeing her, there, in the glow
of lime-green wings beneath the transparence.
Love is divining what has returned,
when it does, and letting go.

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