The world created limes,
and I didn’t know what to do with them.

I limn a whole other space
between spinal fluid
and sparks,

the candles everywhere

The Denver of my mind, or
a road, a hill, horses in snow,
Christmas lights on other houses,

but we’re not going home.

My mind is such a choir—Oh, Ginger,
Ginger, where are you now?

Where and how.


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