a calendar comes down and what remains but numbers as memories

home is in forest
stone’d heart beneath sand mites and beach glass
banjo beats rhythm into spider webbed fingertips

cities are strangers until first sip of au lait
or american(o)

grow hair out to match longing
or
cut into asymmetrical love letters

home is in forest
fires burn initials into trunks
later paper
but first, skin

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