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<title>Swansong | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Swansong</h1>
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<p>This poem is dry like chapped lips.<br />It is hard as teeth—hear the tapping?<br />It is the swan song of beauty, as all<br />swan songs are. Reading it, you are<br />puzzled, perhaps a little repulsed.<br />Swans do not have teeth, nor do they sing.<br />A honking over the cliff is all<br />they can do, and that they do<br />badly. You don’t know where I’m going.<br />You want to tell me, You are not you.<br />You are the air the swan walks on.<br />You are the fringe of the curtain<br />that separates me from you. I say<br />that you are no longer the temple,<br />that you have been through fire<br />and are now less than ash. You are<br />the subtraction of yourself from<br />the world, the air without a swan.<br />Together, we are each other. You<br />and I have both nothing and everything<br />at once, we own the world and nothing in it.</p>
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