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  • The fog rolled back and forth over
    Moat Creek sixteen times
    this morning undecided it seems
    leaving only enough moisture as if one were to feed water into a bird’s mouth with an eyedropper , just a tease.

    I see things Differently Now but am still tangled in that story about how we might
    have been Eurydice and Orpheus in a new historical mythos of modern love,
    not quarantined to this realm of faery and mossy tomb,
    not this life with no clear
    path before me warmed by sun&steam.

    I can sing like an angel when I drive my car and I will charm the Lord of the Dead with my finely painted map of Hades,
    with my newly acquired caution
    my sing songy irreverent mocking of Cause&Effect,
    my refined beguilement.

    I will steal the heart of the Lord of the Dead, preserve it in a silver acorn
    worn around my neck
    hung from the fishing line
    I cut from Neptune’s hook.
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