your neck is a phantom,
your bones are warmer
than I imagined.
this wheel is truth,
is beginning, is ending.
I filled your pillow with coins.
you left me a lock of your hair
on the windowsill, tied together
with the reddest ribbon.
there is a secret place
where we will meet again.
it is thick with moss. it is
covered with thread stretched
so tight. heaven knows I’d
cross the creek to make a bed
between the darkest pines.
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