then fell back asleep to join
you at an overpass: walked
to the rail to see a house
being dismantled, each wall
stacked, intact, in a truck that
would soon haul them all away.
In the morning jet engines
sound off under cloud cover.
I didn’t believe these days
would come again: losing faith
even in rain, winter, loss.
It won’t always be this way:
learning my lessons again.
Two nights later there are two
of you and I’m supposed to
figure out which one’s really
you: not the giant with the
waxen skin. Right. My sister
asks me what my other name
is, but I can’t remember.
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