In my book of birds
Or in my wildflower guide
Or even in my North American
Insects and spiders
Given to me by a clever woman
Who loved me so the pages
Of close-up moths and butterflies
Are smudged with fingering from
That summer I didn’t find you
But a friend referred me to a formula
For grief an astrophysical dead-end
But luckily by then
You had escaped all texts
Found alive among my wrecks
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