The Doctor, he said, and
I am who I am
So she asked
What he wanted was not life
But the beginnings of things
Galaxies blooming and easybumped
Shoulders and in your hand
Mine
-Own race receding
beyond limits of feeling.
So what’s left but everything?
Else-wise what would she be.
Doing?
Endless rounds walking
A retailed ritual vigil
And steaming, steeping
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