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Our Words

It does not pain me to walk the neck of night
when whistling birds of home fall hushed
feathers dropping into old Italian porcelain 

“Look,” I turned to you
the leaves are losing their shapes
the stars are children, watermelon seeds

Night, the great Atlantic wave
floods the baseball diamond over me
and I hush against your dampened coat

Wind scatters your letter full of pearls
feeds the dirt between our apartments
trees spring up nourished by your mouth

Strangers passing through
catch on our frequencies
and feel our words, knocking at their teeth