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She watches her son fall
asleep again, on a fountain side
like a snowflake, built by god,
concentric drinks, purple
clothes on her arms, shabby vineyards,
demons’ eyes painted onto theatric hands. She holds
her eyes open, but her head drifts
down, rocked to sleep. arms
of iron, crimson blizzards, monthly
wolves licking. Her feet forgetting
the dirt that was once
a twin of gold. The names of roots
curing the cold. Dancing
hatred. She wishes she gave him a name and that
nighttime was not daytime.

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