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LOST LETTER V It’s too late. Voices rising through the vents awoke us from the dream we were having of each other. I am a child and you snap off an aloe leaf to soothe the scrape on my knee. You are also a child and hide under the table but can’t articulate why. I want to give you a reason, or a quiver of feathers or an apple, because you look hungry. Earlier, we were late, but now it’s June and the rain assuages the sky. Snowmelt rises into clouds. Here, take my rib to form yourself. Here, take this ball of clay, this kiln. Knead my body into a different shape. Press it into your body. Throw us into the fire just to see what happens next. Or, never mind. Go back to sleep. Let the smoke of us drift out of sight. It still gets dark so early. Soon I’ll put down my pen, burn this letter for light.  ...

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