could still happen) but
the plumeria bloomed
what can I tell you
plum-red as a wound
not the usual
yellow-bellied white
one of us predicted
as in the life of every stem
however vagrant
one day there’s a picture
of the wine-dark mind
where we sail out from ourselves
looking back at the harbor
our house there on the cliff
the wind coming up
the lighthouse of our deaths
casting its wide arc
but now for real
a red you can remember
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