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On the falconer’s leathered fist she bows
straight between her tethered, green gold
legs, thrusts her beak into the grouse,
then bolts straight up with each morsel
before it is lodged in her crop
and with a sinuous toss, swallowed.
It’s not faith that brings him to this theater
to covet her singular hunger, this
thrall at arm’s length--grace and grief
on the gauntlet--but some imperative
that accumulates across his shoulders
when, sated, she stretches her long wing.
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