Dressed in Greens
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I remember you dressed in greens. Jade greens,

your earrings and eyes,

the world between blinks at noon.

In mornings windowlight seeps like swirling tea into

the shuffle sound inhabiting the living room,

the cool breath of my sleeping brother made yours; green.

Since you're light and the stars here know to follow me,

I can carry you. With vision alone

I lift you past alders and plaster cubes

in faded pastels and stacked concrete with lichens

in wide gestures and unkind spaces.

If where you are is sunset then the green band of sky reaches here too;

I feel you radiate because you are somewhere

broadcasting that bright signal, that which you are,

across empty distances.

Some afternoons I dream about contact

and, looking at the crowns of distant trees,

think to turn the light off.

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