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53 the forest Everyone’s lost in a different forest: You for example trace the clumped moss clinging to the bark of willows longing to find our lost child the stones sharp and your feet bare as you pick over needles and narrowing trails flailing your pale arms through shadows laced with vines skin and eyes and lungs and heart pierced till the moss thins at last and you are truly lost But no moss clings in my forest Trying to keep where the trunks are smooth as bars and the leaves flat in the storm’s aftermath of sun and glisten I stick to the wide path waving goodbyegoodbye until sunset and first star and only faintly when I stop to catch my breath I hear the crying ...

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