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Louis Damani JonesDecember 16, 2021

III. Like a hand rubbing my front and back
with a brusque brush,
fingers curled and relaxed, eyes squinting
for any trace of the place from
which I came; your vision,
a soft press scrutinizing
every inch of my surface.

I. I assume I was seen in the way
a postcard is seen,
deep in the bottom
of the very last drawer
at the very last minute,
felt at the depths as a wrist extends;
just at the moment that
your mind has begun to motion
toward the door
on the way to purchase another
after a failure to come upon the sought after.

II. There, a little crumpled
unfolding in your hand,
rested on me an image
like a mirror,
like a last name.

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