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Hope
by K. A. Laity

Hope is the thing with feathers
Reality is the hunter’s gun
That takes aim at your soul
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the travail that bird
And soonest shot through the heart
It never looked like living
And it cannot keep you warm.

A fly buzzed when it died
Carrion attracts such notice.
I had a crumb to offer it
But all too late to matter.