Sun is hidden but you can follow its heat
that much we know the rest from someone else:
quince you stole and never let you go.
This tree is gone but I’ve come back,
to green hills coronet from a broken window,
so much for metaphor I’m in love with
the old brick, no relief for a wandering
womb. There’s a rollercoaster in my chest.
Someone left these images and I have to
live them through. Poetry is the lost and found
the cat grips my head the door in your shoes.
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