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My mother kept a folio
of sandcastles, or dreams, I mean
stained glass sketches from fevered musings
kicked-over cans filled half with sand. The tower
or Tower followed where she walked. Sand
dripped from her toes, red with blood.

My mother kept a folio
of yellowed pages, or dreams, or teeth
stained kicked-over towers and grains
fell through the holes of her mind
of sandcastles, or dreams, I mean,
dripped from her hands, red with blood.

My mother kept a folio
and each year, she added a page.

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