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how I wish
I were immune
to the rising fault of tides
to the shift that
breaks my rhythm
sets my heart adrift
to the strangeness
born of midnight
a voice inside my head
books I’ve long forgotten
lay open on my bed
that I would
this dream remember
like the first
I held of you
when tides were low
moonlight fell
against the pines –
as life I didn’t know
I didn’t know –
a part of me
mistaken for another
left behind

. . .