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A portal between mornings, a line of filigree
as he stands in front of the sun.
Old lightsmith, the splash iron,
torc and tongs.

The alder is a nerve exposed
from this dead ground, the old core
of bird bones and other things,

little larynx in the sedge, a soft fluting
in wait to be flushed out
by a cold shoot of breeze.

The dog is here as well, in search of the living.
Black movement between weeds,
mud plants, the lone alderlosing leaves.

He imagines pink nesting places
where small things lived,
and buries himself there too.

      — Aidan Tynan