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Mar 2014
We remember how
her grand orators
broke the language,

retooled the rhythms,
unshackled lungs
from servitude.

How they tore the night
with tongue and lyric,
and poetry, and poetry.

We remember black bear jaw,
sun swallowed mountain,
river stones.

The gristle of bark of birch,
and how to name the wind
with all her deftly sewn leaves.

We remember the genesis
of the mothers' milk,
and the manhood.

The First Love.

This is the young country.
We are drunk on her
and pitching glass.
A revision
Written by
Jory  Chicago
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