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June 13, 2011
The father is gone,
the son is shipped on,
and the holy ghost is saying his prayers.

He builds with bricks
and she builds with sticks,
for everyone knows a straw house falls
when lacking walls.

Dip me like you hold your guitar;
upside-down you can’t see the stars;
counting streetlights tells you how far
away from the storm you are.

I can’t tell fireflies from satellites
or a swirling sky from the Starry Night,
but I can see the battle right
along the edge of your sword.

Between the covers
tales of lovers
‘twixt “once upon a time” and “the end”.

Who is the prince?
Where has he been since
the tower was built and my hair has grown long,
sold for a song?

Lie asleep in mid-afternoon;
winter waxes well into June;
counting clouds above my cocoon,
awaiting the monsoon.

I can’t tell sprinkles from showers,
but I’ll be an expert in ten thousand hours.
And I don’t need higher powers
if I have you.

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