Me and Emily Dickinson

I saw her in
my dream last night.
Alive as you and me.
She ran and ran.
With blossoms at the brink.
And sunless rivers weeping.
February is busy, she said.
The crowd wearing my face
and water like stone.
The world seemed silent
with a lily’s throat.
And as the moonlight
swiftly fell, she was gone.
Half a singing bird left.
A part of the noise.

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