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you see that curve of cheek? the way the light
skates so smoothly across that halo?
this face does not deserve to be
destroyed.
to have its pieces scattered across
a grocery store parking lot.
instead, we could allow the gold to be
what it was meant to be.
you sigh like an old Kipling poem.
we could tear the forsythia blossoms
from the branches?
put this gold next to our bedside,
pretend it is holy.
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