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  • The time will come when
    you come home
    to all that is here
    in front of you.

    It will be dusk
    in the world of things:
    that low, full-bloodied sun

    which cuts through the half-shut
    of the curtains and into the dark
    of this room, sings across
    your d├ęcolletage. This mirror

    is witness. Step forward
    into the prize of its light.
    Notice your eyes. Their
    colour tips soul into tenderness.

    Love haunts
    your cheekbones,
    (your mother, also, owns them).

    And somewhere, a voice is singing: come home,
    come home. And you know
    you have been travelling
    for far too long
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