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Plumage
My song of you echoes
in another bed
where we have not slept
in a house tearing itself apart.
This floorboard is the heart.
This splintered bed frame is the spine.
This clock is a necessary shadow.
This pull to darkness restores us
restores the complexity of shape.
My song is our fiction
is the hallway between doors.
I sing so as not to live
the poet’s love
so the myth unfolds its wings
around us
and begins to fly.