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Rid of Effulgence

I see the moon—flickering, broken
leaning against
the sky—and am afraid.

I am a girl among men and women
robed in beauty but
without faces. Their tongues

cut; I am derided. Is there an end
to these knives? I lie
I stammer, I am on the verge
of twitching.

I am composed of scorched sea
foam and fire.
I am like a ribbon of weed.

When will I be
flung to the uttermost
edge of the world?