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The Red Sea

Once I met a mistress of the moon.
She had eyes like evergreens
And wrists like rip tides.
I could tell her my delicious secrets —
The lightning in her fingertips
Or the magic of a loose tongue.
But it’s not my place
Even if she is a perfect poem
It’s not my place.
She’s not ready
to leave the storm-clouds
just yet.



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