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    Cam at Seventeen

     

    by Kelly R. Samuels

    ​

     

    It is here and this.                                                And there and that.

    Small as an upturned leaf.

     

    What way? Those points of the compass nonsense

    and the sun only somewhat telling.

     

    You will scold and all will still                               be a blur.

     

    Every fifth or sixth word heard:

    one

                                                             there

    clinging

                                    night

     

    She lay down beside me and spoke of

    a bird’s nest and mountains                                while you turned 

     

    pages with your beautiful hands elsewhere –                 in that room 

    I now sometimes enter, feeling soothed.

     

    This trailing of my hands in the water.                 God in the stern.

                                                                                 And you holding

                                                                                 a book, its covers

                                                                                 like plovers' eggs.

    The egg I will peel shortly, fashioning

    an escapade. A wild chase.             The leap

     

    onto what is now clearly stone. 

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