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NATASHA DENNERSTEIN

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Aquamarine

 

Across the tear-blue field so vast
I fly, fly, fly to you.

 

Chasing me, shadowing me is the mirror
water image of me, or

 

is it you? In this immensity,
drawing me magnetically, is only you.

 

There is the moon; it grows in size
and sucks, spits out the tides.

 

There are wispy, moisture-laden vapours
but I fly straight through them – true – to get to you.

 

 

 

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