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  • Write, she says.
    I can't, I say.
    You can, she says,
    the words are coming back,
    I can hear them.

    They are, I say,
    But the wind in my head
    blows them around so,
    I can't catch them.

    Her ghost hands me
    a butterfly net with
    "words" carved in the handle.
    And she says,

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