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Mercedes Lawry

In the hollow
of the half-dark
swallow of moon

with the stink
of leaf mold,
glisten of snail.

Crouched
like a spent iris
between weeping trees,

I look out
on wild filigree,
listening for

sounds beyond
river-rush
and nighthawks,

risking small breaths
a moth wing
from silence.

Issue 9, 2017, pg. 74