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When you were young you must have looked so old.

I had almost forgotten about you. 

Little bluebird of mine, little snowflake

like a tuft of seeds or water evaporating. 

Don’t talk to me about what you heard

there behind closed bedroom doors, your fingers

stuck and wiggling between the carpet and the rough bottom of the door. 

Or how your head felt split in half. 

Or where you laid down to die. 

How do you lapse into something strange and

wholly new?

How did we get here and how did the 

face of the mountain find me in the fire? 

Gulping the green, sweet smoke. 

I know that you are a sleeping dragon.

 

Put your lips here

and here;

bite the apple. 

 

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