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Poem: 4:09 A.M. 

4:09 A.M.

I put your voice in the ground and grew flowers with my fingers in the dirt, made a line to the sky and we ate it up. “Fall foliage” they say, I think it looks just like our insides. those reds. The world showing us what it’s made of, teaching us how to die. Nevertheless, you are what I live for. This is the way it should be. So I take you and your hands and I put them on me and I read the lines of your favorite stories and we bend the light with our eyes and show it how to dance how to do the twist and we find the water, help me find the water and let’s crash - what else is there to do but crash? Because the sun taught us what goes up must always come back down and we watched it and thought about the past and present tenses while the future swallowed us too fast, not counting blinks or breaths - where can we be found? Pay attention, we are moving so fast, prostituting the world for crumbly dollar bills. I could keep going if you’d like, it’s always better with my fingers. I could stop if I wanted, too, though; I could remember where we all came from, where we are now. Me, here, straight out of one of Poe’s short stories creeping up the stairs with a candle in my hand the hearts in boxes underneath the wooden floors.

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