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the first time we met
peanuts in the garden
hawks watching nervously
lightning in blue
eyes like lighthouses

the last time we met
he was gathering twigs and such
because eggs were coming
and long-dead pharaohs
stove in the sky doors

the ashes and the little feet
splayed, awkwardly certain
of a season’s never
in a moment’s fever

if only my hands could
fail to capture him once more
waiting to follow

to adore