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Chronicle




for eb

Camera slung at the shoulder and a ledger
of bikes that lean, yours is a chronicle
of agave. Spines holding water.

I would recognize you in the dark.
The white spines of diaries, evenly
matched on your shelves. Your whole 

heart beats her wings.

You are witness. You are prayer.

Your home is your ribcage.
Is a garden of surprises where morning 
glories mix with your black Spanish hair. 

Through the grass comes the sound 
of your laughter. You spill before saints 
and apostles. We stand ready
to listen.

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