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If There Is A Missing To Be Had, Let It Be This

Censored horizon on green vines
hanging from every teenager’s
bedroom ceiling in America
how pixels roll fake wave
on the floor, we–on the beach
we–in the future
never recovered
Sitting in sand, our initials
gobbled by laps
and there a shell grows
and grows
and swallows us whole,
grinds us together
our hands in prayer
dear angels, dear saints,
dear ancestors, dear divine mother
swirl in pink tongue
until–pop–a string of pearls
the size of our undoing,
ivy and flowing

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