Belief

— Elizabeth Scanlon

I could hear the roses reaching,
              unfurling like paper crumpled in reverse,
and thought of my young uncle long ago
              with his beautiful long hair, who said
he was watching his fingernails grow.
              I didn’t know
anything about being high, it wouldn’t have occurred
              to me he was,
and that he was kidding, I only thought,
              oh, how good to be so patient,
you see so much.


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