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I wish again for my life,
where mist spilled from the freezer
and frost formed on the glass.

Where I went on galumphing,
squishing bugs, scaring birds. A heron flexed
its flight muscles at the sight of me.

Come November, smart friends
booked it for Baja, enlisted
in alcohol as a second language.

Now I sigh to the deepest parts
of the ocean, which must be tired
of holding up the other parts.

My shadow is just another
thing indebted to earth.
I understand the rippling energy

at the edge of the universe,
because I’ve seen what happens
at the lakeshore. Once again

I step into the fumes
of the city: a tentative deer
at dusk in the statuary.