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Seven P.M.


The bottle shards, like scales atop the wall— orange, lilac, ocher, blue of Chartres— reflect the setting sun on the lane at nightfall. An elm tree overflows: arrows of whorls, cackles, calls, tumult of wings’ upheavals. Flotsam of defunct cathedrals, shimmering fragments, wall.     [Translated from the Italian by Andrew Frisardi]       […]

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