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That’s where I lost it,

my heart, that is, to a

younger self–taken by

blissful berry picking hands

and squeezed and put into

a pie, with other hearts. Let me tell you:

 

Time was blackberry bushes

and I was the sun,

shining, blaring,

blinking, straining

my light to reach

plastic buckets and red-juice

on the white socks and

peach hands.

 

I forget

my bones need grazing, need touch,

however porous the language, however exposed the film,

to remember how it

feels to be inexhaustible, how it

feels to burn for another.

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