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by Danielle Jacobowitz I follow the pattern of steam rising from her cup like the evaporating bones 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 sticking to our ruined mouths like gossamer.
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