Poetry and truth
I dreamed of you last night
for the first time
I had to move your things around, as I do.
You wouldn’t tell me where you wanted them.
You were busy.
You said you were building a telephone line to heaven, and I said, of course it’s you they’d call for that.
If you get it done, give me a call.
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It comes in waves, they say, We should expect it To split us open and be waiting there.