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	<title>Pif Magazine &#187; Alan DeNiro</title>
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	<link>http://www.pifmagazine.com</link>
	<description>The Arts and Technology Magazine</description>
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		<title>White Psalm</title>
		<link>http://www.pifmagazine.com/1997/07/white-psalm/</link>
		<comments>http://www.pifmagazine.com/1997/07/white-psalm/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 01 Jul 1997 08:01:01 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Alan DeNiro</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[I&#8217;m writing this on a napkin that hopes to be a bird, somehow. And not a swan but a tern, white soot flecking past the ropes of sails in a port. The inky swan, night, lingers close, and waits to pull its hood and drawstring. Can terns fly blind? I scribble farther on this thin [...]<p><a href="http://www.pifmagazine.com/1997/07/white-psalm/">White Psalm</a> is a post from: <a href="http://www.pifmagazine.com">Pif Magazine</a></p>
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			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I&#8217;m writing this on a napkin that hopes<br />
to be a bird, somehow. And not a swan<br />
but a tern, white soot flecking past the ropes<br />
of sails in a port. The inky swan,<br />
night, lingers close, and waits to pull its hood<br />
and drawstring. Can terns fly blind? I scribble<br />
farther on this thin wing than I dared. Should<br />
I recant? Loosen the speech-ache that pulls</p>
<p>inside my palm like a ruined anchor?<br />
To stammer my Psalter: I need, I need<br />
givens, soothe, balm clean like salt. Shorn of lures,<br />
the brine wind empties out. The napkin pleads<br />
for flight. If its tossed to the terns, what&#8217;s left?<br />
The ark of dusk, the lung wounded by breath.</p>
<p><a href="http://www.pifmagazine.com/1997/07/white-psalm/">White Psalm</a> is a post from: <a href="http://www.pifmagazine.com">Pif Magazine</a></p>
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