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The ancient owls' nest must have burned.Hastily, all alone,a glistening armadillo left the scene,rose-flecked, head down, tail down
Elizabeth Bishop -
Why should I be my aunt,or me, or anyone?What similaritiesboots, hands, the family voiceI felt in my throat, or eventhe National Geographicand those awful hanging breastsheld us all togetheror made us all just one?
Elizabeth Bishop
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Topography displays no favorites; North's as near as West.More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors.
Elizabeth Bishop -
From a magician's midnight sleevethe radio-singersdistribute all their love-songsover the dew-wet lawns.
Elizabeth Bishop -
The armored cars of dreams contrived to let us doso many a dangerous thing.
Elizabeth Bishop -
The big fish tubs are completely linedwith layers of beautiful herring scalesand the wheelbarrows are similarly plasteredwith creamy iridescent coats of mail,with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Elizabeth Bishop