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How perfectly I feel the noose of longing. Were I able to quiet this mind and walk into myself for a thousand miles, perhaps I would arrive at the other side of loneliness. Those who call offer dead words when I need lightning rods in a summer storm. Day or night, this body wants light before it no longer sings, always. Come, let us sit under our words, a many- ringed tree, bodies drunk on lost time, listening to delicate leaves rustling. How large this day is as if it had room for happiness. Possibility: two, together—slowly annihilated by gratitude.
Copyright 2020 Juniper White
Perfect poem for our sequestration
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