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More Seldom Than a Wave
Something About Letting Go
is wet,
orchids thrive
on wintry things.
July,
that pretty
planet,
comes in hard
things, glowing
things,
and green,
sometimes
overripe things.
I whisper to them
and sometimes
they hear me.
When the one who learned to let go by letting me go
said I should try it I believed him;
I sat in a white chair watching waves
settle on the black water.
On a windowsill in a stairwell
a record crackles, having played
all its music the night before.