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In heaven, there are two 

of  everything,, in case

one breaks. Always a back-

up plan: two Zambonis

for the firmamental

ice rink, because the dead

like to glide around a lot,

cutting cunning figures 

of sideways eight. Two large 

needles with generous 

eyes and two spools of thick 

navy thread to stitch the 

wayward stars into their

constellatory fabric – 

some rogue cluster always

loose up there, barely tacked,

and archangels are poor 

seamstresses which leaves 

the task to us,  all raw

edge in an ombre sky,

and once dead it is 

not easy to fix things.

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