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How it goes

The light has lost
what? It cannot locate
say, the woman
on an overgrown lawn:

it licks grass-heads
until their seed
spills. And she is still
invisible. You know

how it goes, you know
she is ‘the one’
whose name you can never
curl your tongue

over. You are not light
enough. She weighs
less than a baby’s fingernail,
less than the single

silver hair on a christening gown.

March 1994, Rue Balguerie, Akaroa

 


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