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Alexandra Carlyle
Poems
Dec 2010
the dash
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.
Written by
Alexandra Carlyle
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