I am told that branches, once grafted, will sing again, as was once, they were willing to tell, this story & I, a mere passerby, was told it. My cell makes mute a youthful tone, but I am not one to be trusted. I have been incarcerated for better things than you and she. There is a crack, many, a forehead and when that happens, you can't expect love to find shape, formless as the sea, the alphabet of graffiti. I am most unlike an arrow, or a progressing arrow, or a paragram in the middle of a tortoise shell, the keystone shape of myth. I have not forgotten the words, I have not, I have not forgot. I have forgotten not, nor have I, as it sounds, ever & that is exactly where I stand, never an inch, never any inch closer to the next half-way point where the tradition, the brick & sea, engage in pageantry. I was once in love with her, her mouth wide on my wall, drawn there as if I could almost speak.
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