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Septuagesima

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Written by John Burnside

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 I dream of the silence
the day before Adam came
to name the animals,

The gold skins newly dropped
from God's bright fingers, still 
implicit with the light.
A day like this, perhaps: a winter whiteness haunting the creation, as we are sometimes haunted by the space we fill, or by the forms we might have known before the names, beyond the gloss of things.


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