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David Epstein

Loan me that book you talked about,

where the birds rise in waves.

The one with windows open in winter,

that the author inscribed

To J, for J, because of how

while we are here, the Why

is answered like a thing to eat,

and does not die: sustains.

I look at you, a bird who in

and landed on my chair,

the back, (its sense of function pure)

as if we are a flock of two.

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