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by Danielle Jacobowitz

I follow the pattern
of steam
rising from her cup

like the evaporating
buried beneath
the sidewalk

We seek this city fog,
misled into a seductive wood
of wolf's breath
and the underside
of green things
on certain days

Frog babies crawl
into our dressers
at night
and plead with their
sad, strong voices

"Come home. Come home."

We plug our ears
and cover our eyes,
but our teeth
are tethered
to the streets

We cannot leave
without sacrifice
to our ruined mouths
like gossamer.


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