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To a memory

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when the window is open
i can hear cars wading by
wheel-deep in headlights
sliding like memory
across the smooth pink wall
that I lie beneath
in a bed made of dream
carrying me across old
creaking floorboards
mahogany rich and deep as
the moonlight dancing
across my windowsill
and moving
smelling
of fresh magnolia
trees whose big leaves
crunch underfoot
and whose boughs
are rough and thick
like arms
with slender black spiders
weaving among lines
webs of memory in the dark





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