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Almost an Island

The flowers my son & I plant blossom as strange & disappointing eyes. We come to find them beautiful. Isn’t it our job to find legs for the clouds above us? Isn’t it a door opening oddly in the morning & to see that someone again calling out across kitchens & sugar packets & “I lived” that green green world across the river. Walk with me until there. If you cover a subcontinent with ink it resembles familiar land masses. Whispering peninsula to strangers might have mixed results. My umbrella has left me. I still have the handle. The poem is hungry for etchings on all of its sides & we’re out tattooing stars & stars & stars. Have we forgotten the birds? The shape of her laugh. When I walk in the rain the rain is ink.