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Puddle Rituals MAG
We’re not done yet, you remind me.
New life shivers into every
grieving rainstorm.
Waking up to the clink of wind chimes
in the fog,
there is nothing I can be but grateful.
The telephone wire sings a dirge of slow rot and self-control.
A centipede inches across my windowsill –
legs moving to the drip of a melting waltz.
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