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BETH BACHMANN

(salt)

The snow needs more                                          
                                        to oil

its throat into song. The birds
are gone 
                  and the deer are greedy,

eager to cauterize.
                                    Slip me

a hinge. My hands are tied
like blackened flies. My fingers: hackle and feather.

Rock, rock, quiet water, rock. What rhymes
with rose

-flushed glass? The sun’s a blood-bath.



26   The Paris-American

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Beth Bachmann is the author of Temper (Pitt Poetry Series, 2009), winner of the AWP Donald Hall Poetry Prize and the Kate Tufts Discovery Award. Her new manuscript won the 2011 Poetry Society of America’s Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award for a book in progress. Find her at  www.bethbachmann.com

   
 Next week's poets:

Ilya Kaminsky & Katie Farris
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