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You know, those heels, the ones a bit too high

and certainly uncomfortable, but luck and common

sense are stuck in the back of your carry-on bag.

And yes, there is a larger moon, and then one

even larger, one perched up next to landscape,

so forget the camera, don’t breathe or wobble,

your words held still, and still uncooperative

in every setting that you try. Those pearls

your mother used to sleep with, all perfect

round wishes, a mix of aspiration and thin-

pillow induced insomnia. Implication is defined

as meeting a stranger while having coffee

in an airport lounge and wondering if he’s

decaffeinated, or how much tequila

it might take to make the bottom swoon.

These many different lakes recount

the strength of anniversary, the steak

that you spring for, the dessert you know

won’t do. Unpeel every advertisement

in well-worn magazines, discard each promise

as so outdated there’s no way it’s going to fit.

There’s just no way it’s going anywhere,

while you are birds in setting sunlight, you

inhabit mail-in offers, stuff postcards

in the empty seat beside. Past this early morning

leaving, the BBC whispered news and told you,

you were awake. Mixed-up innuendo and regrets

in practicing goodbyes until even the place

you still reside is sort of a demonstration

of wishful thinking. Or a map no one

could ever count on, your squishing

fingertips wandering together to measure scale

and then, shit, you must have flinched.

Each tip unsteady in your attempts to prepare

for the weather in your suitcase. Situations,

the ones where rain and sun combine

into a note that you leave for the cat, a small

prayer there in the bottom of the bowl, before

double-checking deadbolt and whispering goodbye.

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