this time you pose, for me
this time your throat finds
light
you around the house,
musing, obscure
shallow bowl, you hold
what you find in the morning
lakeside--
new stones/pieces of sepia/dark
teeth,
the low wind.
i know you'll write me soon
from those blooms you love
(your happiness there.) your
absence
is a flat building, and mine
a tire iron. you muse, you,
known, your curled fingers
no apertures, new countries
new shapes, thick paint
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