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52 B lue A ir Cactus Dreams I do not know what makes cactii rise in the desert, their insides wet, like my dreams coming from nowhere. I rise from the floor of oceans damp, curved as the neck of a sea horse. Irises fall from my hair. My skirt splits to the waist. I am not a cactus, not a sweet nothing on your pillow. I am light curtains blowing across your face tonight. ...

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