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Worlds

A single red hardbacked chair on a wrought-iron balcony. Sun and warm. A potted lemon tree. Blue teapot and steam. The scent of lemon, specifically.

Women jogging by, singly. Except for this, the street is quiet. 

Slow-dance in the kitchen to a slidey slidey waltz.

The poet transmits the poet’s self in the poem.

Keep beaming and belling, outward and overboard.

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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