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Tell me about the dream
where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again
how it was late and no one could sleep
the horses running until they forget they are horses
it's not like a tree where the roots have to end some where
it's more like a song in a policeman's radio
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red,
and every time we kissed
there was another apple to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon,
that means we're inconsolable. Tell me how all this,
and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.