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From Louise Erdrich:

January 9, 2018

The cats wind together in the barn.
Their weightless bodies fly across the field like scarves.
Draped on a woodpile, vibrating
in a patch of sun,
their eyes are frozen glass.
Their mouths,
lined with rose petals,
shirred with bloody silks
and bone needles,
open with delicate interest
of the very old angels, the first ones,
in whose eyes burned the great showers of the damned.

– Angels

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