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Drafts, Poetry

Oh, the Places You’ll Go

We will never see the Hanging Gardens
of the Colossus of Rhodes. Think
of when we spent the night
behind our woodshed. By the end we were
cold and covered in morning dew. And
believing, more than anything before:
“to where you were and where you now
are not”. It is now summer
and the trees speak softly
as wind plays a haunting rhythm
as it sways and journeys past our naked toes.



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