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Here is all the light in the world
traveling from my dress, godyears to your eyes, which are             behind
everything I’ve tried to give a name to

in the kingdom of moths I wore white gloves so as not to disturb
the powder on their wings, which, having magic, allowed them to fly around the street
lamps                       which are less bright than I am

pulling the moon down each night                        with a lullaby like how I remember
your laughter

in the black of my brain and that red texas evening when we stole somebody’s liquor

and the nest we made to drink it in running from the law
with the branches of that bramble around us like a secret surrounding everything
but is never touched like

I want to tell you

about the night I ate all the cotton candy and kissed the boy with the boat, which you would
have loved to see, how I fell in the water and there was too much distance with no land and
I hid my eyes in my powdered fingers trying to muffle

all the light I’ve gathered in the sky of this dress,
bedazzled by the distance that light travels between

all                        these                                              stars.