she tells me my unsatisfied yearning might not belong rightfully to me.
maybe it's the neighbor, across the creek, shoving twigs and newspaper,
attempting to start the fire, flinging on more gasoline from a small red tank,
cursing and hoping that the flames sustain themselves this time.
I'm breathing in last sunday's silk mimosa tree.
I'm not crossing my fingers, but I am rubbing my own neck,
leaving traces of pink, yellow, green.
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