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Dec 2010
What is given is never
fully yours but still you keep

returning with palms
outstretched.  You own nothing

beyond confessions cradled
in dogwood blossoms

and heartbeats, aching
echoes of some silenced

dream.  In November
you are a spindle

and how unprepared
for the unraveling.  Tomorrow

he is gone
and you are still,

beckoning.
Alexandra Carlyle
Written by
Alexandra Carlyle
997
 
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