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Dance of the Cranes In the warm room needles trace the meridians, hold my body captive for this time, but I, transparent as dried leaf, slip outside to rhythm of shakuhachi and drum, enter that mystic mountain of the oriental print where the cranes gather. I do not disturb them. I have been there before. They know me. They are moving now with stately, delicate grace. The great white wings enfold me. The dance continues . . . |
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Issue #27, June, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.