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Sunday in Biafra

The buzzard’s radium eye is mild
As he scans the silhouette of bone
Within the wasted child.

Lean he is
As the shadow of a swan
Lean
As the animal he feeds upon

His beak, being used, is clean.

He mates
He dreams he mates
In crossed shadows
Under the gorged moon.

He sings
He thinks he sings
As he stands his belly on its ruby wings
And runs his feathers through the red monsoon.

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