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This entry is part 26 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

You say you do not remember
the things we used to do
together— We counted the hundred
and some steps that led to the cathedral,
holding our breath from near vertigo
on descent. The boys that sold
lottery tickets loitered along the edge
of the overlook, tempting fate
at the same time that they sold dreams
cheap, if by the dozen. I was ashamed
one summer to wear the shoes
made to correct the uncanny
curvature of my back. And so I believed
you then when you said I should find
the filament in the center
of the spider’s web, roll it
between my thumb and forefinger,
swallow it like a pill. We circled
the neighborhood streets like strays
intent on finding the map to places
where wildness was still spoken,
a language not yet extinct.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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