Replication. Of days, of stars.
A ledge to lean over gauges the distance
to certain death. I have sat
naked to the passing clouds
as they altered the freckles on my skin.
The chairs I’ve thrown out for the pleasure
of wanting them back.
I have scars from glass
where I was shattered. Urgent spasm
of wind. I started out a girl in the tower.
And now
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