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I did not create
you, sun on my neck
warmer than words.
What you touch with honey-jar
hands I carry
in my first-kiss
mind, I let slide off my
mottled half-
light between
the sheets.

I think I’ll join
you on the ground,
light-hugged glances
trickle over but don’t
seep under the earth–it’s still
cold beneath–colder still
when I dig.

I am warm
somewhere.
I encounter sticky
note pasts in lost
books. Charlie Byrne’s
€7.50 didn’t prepare me
for this. Just discovered
coffered drafts. I know
I’m disjointed. I never write
page numbers. Since
when was my birth
my beginning?

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2 thoughts on “Scramble In My Haves

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