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If I could, I would shift.
I’d slip this calcareous coop
with clatter and splash, to soar,
shooting high like a formless star.
And in that form (which has none)
I would linger, I would float alone,
to lie-in-notice at what of me
is truly me-ness; what is breathing
when all memories and cells
are left behind.

Would any dreams remain?
Would fear?
I question these structures that I cobble
with my palms full of sand,
noting that my life’s suitcase
seems so oft packed
with bits that may not be necessary.
And my heart too
carries weight,
unneeded, yet so often heeded.


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