A far innocence it came to be
like a
dream of a boiling sea
like a
small-town girl who lived to run free
a memory
of me.
Whose bike
was a ship that sailed pirate seas
whose
music drew celestials for tea
and
stories she wove to escape her father
written up
in a tree.
I see her
sometimes in my shy reticence
in polite
penitence
in
eloquent expressiveness
and yearn
to possess
a far
innocence up in a tree,
in memory
of me.
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