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It seems you must grow
into your death slowly,
as if it were a piar of new shoes
wiating on the closet floor,
smelling of the animal
it came from, but still too big
too stiff for you to wear.
Meanwhile you dance barefoot
your shaky ddance of pretence,
and we dance with you,
the pulses in our own wrists
ticking away.
in this small truce
the body waits,
having waged war on itself
for years. You say
the water tastes of flowers.
You steal on tiptoe
past the closet door.

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