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Poetry

What we built to hold us,
the year’s memory, menus and daytrips,
after a while came loose.
Those nights we balanced
on each other’s mistakes,
cradling our wine: twigs
those branches now. Who knew
what lived there? She she she

called one bird. What lived there
knew its place. Another bird
splits its nest wide,
hinges the gap with spider silk,
learning to give, to give, to give
until breaking. Only then—

either one gives until breaking
or one does not.


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