I must be the cactus who loses whole lobes,
stretches green again from just one drop of water.
I think of words
to describe pain.
None are tall enough, dark enough.
Wait, maybe: CAVE.
I am gathering my thoughts,
my belongings.
Neighborhood animals
arrive thin at my door.
In the morning,
inkwells below my eyes.
See how I stand inside a box
called house?
I am still, not planted.
I face a winter sun.
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