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Our nights of dreaming about credit counselors and rugby
were being clawed apart by Arizona.
Hooping my feet on the streets, I smoke a cigarette
and kneel by the gutters, watching a bicycle baptized in rust.
Sometimes I pray I drown in the rain --
especially with a phone in my hand, smiling
and softening the bricks of my house.
But you push and push, persuading me
that my heart was wrapped in a blanket.

The dinners we won't have
are dreamed by your cups of applesauce, the chorus
you sing along to when you have me on hold.
But I was gone -- the dark corner,
Tuesday's grandchild, heavy as a hyacinth.
I ran home and counted the nails in front of the gray
cathedral mailbox, lighting up the skin you've uncovered.
The petals on the gerbera daisies hang bloated
in the old compost, swallowing the light.

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