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This morning, I levitate
 
 

The sky peels itself from

the windows, undressing 
midday
into half light, 
shadows dripping
from the ceiling.
 


Where are you, lover?
These
 rooms have teeth. 
 


The silence makes me feel all white
 
how does quiet become a mirror?



Grasping at cloth, at glass,

at sunlight, a dream. More seraphim,

a winglet. Droplets hushing into something

like a breath, tendrils of us
bead and contour,
 serrating the day. 



I magpie for you. Cobalt feathers,

little trinkets made of moss and

shell and stick. Tokens of heaven and

earth, the vase and the helianthus,

treading water between the worlds.

This is how you're saved, I say

But you never listen.

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