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  • I remember her and melodies,
    standing on the tips of her toes,
    dancing to music that played
    from a stereo propped up
    on rusty coffee cans.

    She moved with the galloping stride
    of a seahorse and the moon
    sat on her shoulder,
    like a bird wearing a hat,
    balanced on a blue razor

    a few feet from the smoky embankment of Holy Cross

    I stayed with her that night, just
    a week after we met in a former horse stable
    now a bar, a part-time haven for poets
    and madman art covered in brick dust,

    where everyone scribbled down their
    racecar thoughts with doppler
    droplets and thunder brew,

    me, writing new chapters which soon
    became covered with cats claw and vines,
    rust colored leaves that tumbled
    across the wet earth hissing,
    as the storm pulled loose teeth
    from ships on the river, gliding,
    growling by her half-shotgun house.

    I witnessed a pack of feral dogs
    through the holes of her floor
    and children with sticks,
    ghosts of dockworkers sitting on sacks of
    barley and corn, chewing tobacco,
    lifting silver flasks in the air, relighting songs
    that were strong and full of want.

    And there I was, lying beside her,
    watching the blue-silver sickle,
    through an open window with a different,
    perhaps magical eye, washed clean,
    made rich by the breeze she created
    with her clown-like smile.
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