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TELEPHONE LINE 7
Randall, Jill, Mira, Sasha, Patrick
ODE TO THE GREEN LIGHT THAT COMES THROUGH MY WINDOW EVERY AFTERNOON
The green light comes through the window.
I unpeel the banana. Life is a seesaw. I want to be touched.
To be picked up and placed gently down into August.
Instead, the slow rocking of another hour.
Instead, I peel off the doll and take care of it.
Voices turning in my hands. Lean in.
Prune the greening of days accounting.
I squat to hug the potted plants.
I feel another version of myself
pushing me on this swing.
The night disappears from my palm. Lean out.
I let loneliness sit in my lap. I wake
to the tick-tocked refrain of I am here, I am here.
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