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This Present Life
James Reiss
Did the bird that slammed into my picture window
think its glass was an open door he could breeze
through like the sparrow flying through time
in the Anglo-Saxon poem, coming to life when he flew
to be served amid cries of hál béo þu with music
in his gray feathers and never emerge from my house?
As he lay in a tiny heap outside on a flagstone
his soul arose like smoke that wreathed
my suburb's shield.
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