How naïve I was in the water,
this doorbell belongs to you.
This is a chip in the side,
but you don’t mind.
You were this steam
No one could noodle.
Nowadays, I sit by the bank
scratching mud off my side belly.
There was substance there,
a carousel to house each storm.
I still pluck whole couches,
thesis, and fist that tangle
my long long hair.
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