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The heron on the wall, by the window, where I lay,

such a vase of a thing when stopped, waiting.

I’m still flat on your living room floor when the tray

of glasses smash. I don’t even try to get up. You sweep.

You’ve been at the market buying silk scarves, nice cheese.

You’re making us something to eat, and have not asked me

even once to explain, but instead let the phrases accumulate,

drop unplucked, windfall apples scattered about your space.

Eyes closed, the cloud of splinters might as well be spring heather

along the underside of my arm. Then there was the gull feather

on the bench, by the river, landing behind your ear as we spoke

about the freedom of choosing to be happy, and its jumelle, fear.

That same night the moth as big as a bat appeared in my bathroom,

then stayed with me on the beams for a bit, remarkably calm.

Each closure of its wings was a miraculous disappearance.

Red eyed motif lost to interiority, the underbelly of the felt a perfect

match for the wood. You’re always young in Paris. You both liked

that line. I’m thinking of shaving my head to test the limits of this

feeling of lightness I have. Which parts of me do I need to shut

to acquire the grey blue grey blue grey of my neighbourhood.

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