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I Think I Am Removed . . .
I think I am removed from the dragon fly,
but I am carried with it through the twists
and turns
of the summer’s warm air, past the papyrus
and African iris,
up and over the dying black oak.
Then, perched on a slim, green stalk of weed
I find myself alone, my glassy wings folded,
my slender body holding onto the breeze,
and I see - as little as this might seem
-
the universe.
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