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invitegoldsmiths2

September in a heat wave
as the mist burns up
the morning sun.
You worry about
our stream horse
lost in the fog.
It’s been a summer
of not touching the ground.

Now I’m back in the hospital
with the taste of winter
at the back of my throat.
She talks through drawings
of a smaller me,
the impossible made possible,
snowflakes falling.

You ask me if it hurts,
only when you wake up I say,
only when you wake up.

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