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I am selling everything I own
in the middle of this silence
moving to Seattle
and counting only on rain.

I don't care anymore
about the money rich things
I could fill rooms with,
or living by the pattern,
checked over and over
for any inconsistancy
a missing comma here or there.

I have been living these past months
quiet as a bulb in February,
as though I were up to my eyes
in a lukewarm bath
no ripples pushing grey water
up the porcelain sides.

There, in a bed of silence
I wait to push up through spring mud
and flower.

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