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P
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Men’s knees convulse as if buckling

 from the weight of music. This is not the Pegasus.

This is San Francisco. The tenderness of evening

 is lost in the afternoon. It’s Sunday, but still,

those knees bend and buck like a crush

 of newborn deer freshly dropped from the womb.

And I think to myself this is what calves do, test their legs,

fumble over mounds of hay, stumble into crag and divot.

And though time has passed, the hooves of yearlings

 lead with caution. Even the hart’s leap

is uncertain to land on solid ground. And so,

 I watch these fawns dance. I watch them sway.

Delighted, they nod and stretch their necks

 and cosset their neighbors in coarse movements

with loose limbs.