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Where edges are

 She is effulgent in the dark halls of town.
She is listening but they are hearing.
Her skin is blistering and sharp with sparks.
She is listening for the crick of grass underfoot.
They are hearing her heavy paces.
She is straining to feel the hum of the air.
They are hearing her voice wailing like a warrigal.
She is being quiet to count the breathing.
They are hearing the stertorous cracks of her fine pure voice.
She sings knife prising the clenched hills shrieked and sharp with danger.
They are being calm and combing their hair.
She is brittling the unseen strings connecting.
They are wishing softly in the afternoons.
She is testing with her naked feet where the oyster edges are.

by Chris Mansell
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