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The breathing, bare branched tree outside the kitchen window?
She shivers about, tense
at the inhospitable world
blinds and plexiglass seal frightened creatures from.
Rocking
from root to root —
in front, in back, in
the sun’s silhouette, the wind fancies her social anxious, as if
her and I were not sustained by the same substance, as if
our roads will not diverge. When I
learn her shiver, she softens, then jerks
her bough closer
with the reluctant certitude of soul
wanting to imagine glass as air.
Copyright ©
Keila Cruz
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