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The Angel’s Song She calls to you from across the twilight of long ago and not yet. Each morning, light makes air a tuning fork of color. She plucks a feather from her wing. You float above a town made of short stories. This is where you belong, floating like a sigh above the trees. When your feet touch ground you wake to footprints leading to a crib where an infant sleeps beneath a blanket of murmurs. Open your eyes. This is the day you were born. There is a song in your head. Saints of Electrocution I read a short story about a woman who was hit by lightning and for the rest of I worked in a factory assembling transformers, testing them with bursts of Lenny DellaRocca has previously appeared here at 2River, and other recent poems have appeared in Albatross, Chiron Review, Mad Hatters Review, and The Potomac. His chapbook The Sleep Talker has recently been published by Nightballet Press. contact
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