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Anthony Paticchio

Worn knowledge rests in a cleft

in the brow,

beats time against the heart’s intent,

seeks the vein that empties out

its crown, stills its hard desire

for permanence.

Once found, let go,

given up to the blood torrent

bearing it away,

it forgets again, seals up the rift again,

surrenders itself to time again,

lies still in sleep again.

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