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Anne Carson’s
Holderlin Town

You are mad to mourn alone.
With the wells gone dry.
Starlight lying at the bottom.
Like a piece of sound.
You are stranded.
Props hurtle past you.
One last thing you may believe.
Before the lights go out is.
That the mourning is at fault.
Then the sin of wishing to die.
Collapses behind you like a lung.
Night.
The night itself.

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