Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2015  v14n1
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back JENNY BROWNE

Jean Valentine Was Here

A man told his son
they would stand

shoulder to shoulder
and not be faced.

Sparrows ink both
the boy’s wrists.

Home says the back
of his neck.

Ice forms and falls
on the inside

of this small window.
Some assume the world

will not touch them.
Not one finger.

Whenever you leave
will be too soon.    


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