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Amy Kuhn


On the fringe are whispers of something beautiful,
Like sirens dangling a revolutionary aesthetic movement forbidden in life,
Luring to a precipice.
“That moon’s a sign,” you gazed at the sky and look at me, my eyes still
Transfixed on the long curve of the orangey slice, beautiful, like smooth skin
Exposed under a black shirt
I know not what it portends, except it marks our departure,
And though I used to condemn signs because they give people freedom of
Interpretation (and I was against everything that could ever make anyone happy.)
I smiled and said the singular sight signified exceptional events to come.