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I'm coming home, kjæreste, my dearest, to you
I unfold these banker's boxes, I wash and fold my clothes,
to dip them in and pat the top. I pack my photos up.
outside, those rebel cheeks I've come to know
let go of animals of curling white smoke,
introduce them to the rain, let them dance wildly,
the sky politely asks the cheeks to dance,
asks the bodies attached to them,
while I'm kneeling on the porch wall with my arms out,
7 feet up from the lonely front hedge 
it's dark and I only want to feel what the sky feels
it's morning and I only want to feel what the sky feels
laying bells on the grass made of nectar, made of dew
they chime only when the world is too sleepy still
to recognize chimera in a world they are too busy
to step into