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Nine Lines
Zhou Mengdie
Your shadow is a bow.
And with yourself you draw yourself
full: so full it hums.
Every day, out of the east, a sun’s shaken down:
ball after ball of copper-red autumn, completed
in your wind-dried hands.
Why don’t you grow a thousand hands, a thousand eyes?
—you have so many autumns:
so many selves, waiting to be shaken down.
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