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Like Everyone Else These Days, Poems Get a Little Bit Lost

Time is scattered
through a million little rooms these days.
I write in my head on long, solitary walks.
Count breaths and syllables.
Repeat the poems that come,
hoping to grasp their raggedy edges
long enough to get home
where I keep paper and pens
and sometimes one slips away, like this–

My favorite strangers
hang plastic eggs
from bare tree branches
tied on with bits of
colored string

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