detached from the poem
            there is always a voice drinking and dying
            there is always a noisy fountain dying of thirst
but in here where there is no sound   
i hear the voice
of the friend who loved you
fields of light and darkness
no one else is going to touch—
this Ohio grows old within me       
a woman releases the raven’s feather
she has always owned
my body no longer dreams it is a river
            and what cannot be understand is hushed
and earnest
gathering its breath

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