Rearrange This

No precious space, no
books framed to hang
on walls she would only want
to move at the moment
of willingness. That dandelion

tea she spilled on
printouts of online
articles about his song
without dance—not necessary.
An accident she could explain

away with a pilot light
that flickers out—after,
always after the water
boils. The dust of her breathing
skin gets in a little

each night
while she sleeps without fear.

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