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She ages – through shorter

someplace summers and cloying

pains –  upon a row of cheeky lines

as when I saw her last (I don’t

remember those before)

slower to rise for mornings and softer

on words – hope holds her on its

clammy palm into time-worn

afternoons –

she ages again – and again

 

doing without lipstick – unwilling to

steer the mascara – oh, her eyes still

sparkle (to a memory?)

and when I close my eyes I see her clearly

 

she is growing wings

one day soon she will fly

away

 

without feathers

 

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