and I’m looking

—with looking-glass eyes—

at my old scarlines

and I’m seeing

—as I’m looking, just now I’m seeing—

how beautiful they really kindof are

{they make me


but now

the dog days are over

it doesn’t matter what I wanted, but

I know now what

I’ll wish and wish for

on every slippery pearly winking star and passing sunset

and every moon that comes and falls here for me, plum-pearly-peacefully

—they come from afar, for me, can you believe it?—

and I’ll love the questions

best of all.

it’s taken quite a few whiles, but among red silk ribbons

that weren’t

and pages I died upon,

I remembered

something I’d never known:

and it is the process,

he told me

not the finale.

not the dripping astral deaths; but yes

the clovers sewn to fairy crowns

the goosebumps up my little brave arms

the dust you wiped off of frozen windowsills of their hearts

the cheeks you felt on your timid fingertips after dark.



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