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Keitha

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I am from a dead end.
I am from where that street
jumps into sprawling bends.
Where I’m from has been banished
behind a wooden privacy fence.
I am from the cherry blossoms
umbrellaed over the yard.
I am from the top of its branches,
clambering over its pale limbs,
I was hoisted by its hands and arms.
I am from the memories,
pleasant in their frames.
Dappled in the shade of leaves,
recalling childhood games.
Romping through the trees,
play feral children with raw knees.
I am from that pack.
I am from that past.





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