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Penelope Shuttle

Scapegoat Song

I love the sky best on foot
when I rise from myself

like a necessary tempest,
quicker than the future,

kinder than the past,
kneeling by the mercy-seat of the light,

losing and finding
the mustard-seed of myself,

studying the deceit of pomegranates,
the doe of autumn, a leaf in its prime,

a lighthouse so white
the moon has to look the other way all night.