![](https://cdn.theatlantic.com/thumbor/5Vx50Z2sTMo7RAZKUGUjPlmVJIM=/5x177:4165x2344/1200x625/media/img/2024/06/0724_Poem/original.png)
On the lookout for their night time roost, tiny
birds drop like stars into the darkened useless bushes
round me. I believed
desires had been like water, that we
can’t scent anything else there. And you then visited me,
your frame complete once more
however the will have to of extinction for your breath.
This poem was once tailored from Forrest Gander’s coming near near e book, Mojave Ghost: A Novel Poem. It gave the impression within the July/August 2024 print version.
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