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The Mind Is Its Own Place
Ann Townsend
Mated and unmated,
with their devotions
until the tree roils
and sways, wing-beats
sounding the torrent
through which they swim.
Dopamine, paroxetine,
an injection of adrenaline
into the bloodstream:
these deliver the dissident
pleasure, and for its pain.
Call it one song indispensable
to trouble the branching
toward water, switching
in the breeze; it grazes
the edge but cannot
rest there. My fingertips
pressed against my temples:
ten points of sensation,
starlings congregate
their alphabet blown to bits
in the wind's rush.
Yes, you heard me.
the mind is full of birds.
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