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To get to her


I'd have to walk by hundreds
of other names etched into the rippled veins
of black and white marble

to place my palm-warmed pebble
on her stone, I'd have to stand
heels sinking into the mud 

and what good would it do
to look down and wonder
if the ground ever gives up

To get to her
I'd have to make death familiar–

something that begins
on the roof of the mouth 

and ends with tongue
between the teeth

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