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O
is not the simplest letter, not always
a lucid stroke. In my book of scripts
O sloughs its symmetry, tilts toward discord,
its wall subsiding, air charging out
as the winds inside gnash and ravel,
upgrade to howl. I lay my finger
on the page and trace each flourish.
I conjure up your lips saying
the letter, forming the shape but stopped
mid-word. I read it over and over,
I who know too well these days
how a single sound can hold a city.
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