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LOST LETTER II We could rendezvous like children in a place we build ourselves, make a roof from branches, bittersweet and eyebright, choose whose body will be the structural beams, whose body will be the windows, doors. If we are the house, who will live in us? No time for rational thoughts, my Skeleton Key, just hold me in your arms like a piñata broke open. Why does this distance always feel violent? you said, but I heard violet, as in lavender field, the under-rush of ocean. Connotations abound, but nothing literal to hold. On the early train home, I thought of the breaths you left at the turnstiles, how I could have plucked them, like plums, from the dark, morning air. My bones felt light, almost hollow, and I’d have flown back if you hadn’t already relinquished our shy season to the ice-paved roads, the trembling boughs.  ...

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