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— Phuong T. Vuong

The way wind breaks through squares

            in screens, how the glass drains

itself left alone,

            bluebells lean into the brick path. There,

she is there. Awaits your eyes.

            You know

the spirits step lightly,

            press shadows on carpet, sweep

through plates of full fruit. Smoke

            swirl caress when she nears.

She holds you between pillowcase palms,

            pulls blankets—just right.

You know

            she watches you cry. The body

of her curves in your tears.

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