There are more times than not I let my hands get lost,

(I encourage their wandering)

And I’m met with pieces of you,

Coming off on my fingertips like moths’ wings and newspaper print.

And I worry that the more I touch, the less of you there will be.

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This morning the sun came calling,

Refracting in my kaleidoscope bones.

So I pick up my bags

(I carry them under my eyes)

And head for home.

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