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I’m not the one
you brag about
the open hand –
the heart
where once you lay
your weary head
emptied it of dreams

from knowing
everything and none
the weight of silent truths –
the sheets still warm
recall the sun
as I remember you

as yesterday
ten thousand more
the hooded blue of dusk
a thread to break
within the breeze –
as letters meant
for us

. . .