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Dido's Farewell

The rain is chronic
at my windows, and candles drown
in their own wax.
Abandoned by light,
even the filaments of stars
go black. This afternoon
I propped your drenched roses
up on sticks,
they look like young girls
on crutches now.

You left
a partial map
of your right hand
on every doorknob,
and I follow from room
to room, nomad
in my own house,
my own heart knocking
at my ribs, demanding
to be let out.

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