Poem Twenty Six: Untitled

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We are pulled by things 

we cannot name.

Is it the mind’s nature

to bend bamboo 

just enough 

so it won’t break?

Do thoughts have sounds?

The beating beneath my jacket,

does that have 

a sound too?

We are photographs stolen 

of a river in sudden release.

A house made of rising water 

before it floods the lungs.

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