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You posed for words
that I would draw.
They clung to you.
I chose the finest oval tip
from small glass jars
to paint you to my cloth.
I did not watch the daystar
take the seasons
and with them you.
the world went old around me.
I put away my
hues and umber
and
still the unframed canvas
turns its face against the air.
Damp and thick with you.
it cannot dry.
Mia Moore
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