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Nothing was ever straightforward with you

and so, instead of returning to where

I left off, I re-entered the poem

from afar - it hardly mattered where -

and eventually reached the same clearing

marked, I'd noticed, by the hands of time

held up in prayer, where I'd seen you before -

or thought I had - at the midnight hour

you rhyme yourself with. Page after page

the light would change, to dark and back again,

reminding me of someone who, when put

on the spot, knows the dance of gain and loss

by the secret fidelity of moving

from one foot to the other, to the other.

Losing My Page

Rachael Boast

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