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Don McKay

Moon, night after night rehearsing shades of pause and spill, sifting into reed beds, silvering the fine hairs of your arms, making rhythm out of light and nothing, making months. What have I ever made of life or it of me? — Don McKay, from “Lift,” Angular Unconformity: Collected Poems 1970-2014 (Icehouse Poetry, 2014) Advertisements

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Margaret Atwood

Everything once had a soul, even this clam, this pebble. Each had a secret name. Everything listened. Everything was real, but didn’t always love you. You needed to take care. — Margaret Atwood, from “Because We Love Bare Hills and Stunted Trees,” Poetry Ireland Review Issue 116

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