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Steppe Classics

Steppe Classics

They are unearthed by their own absence, 
seen only in the slain rims of dreams 
where we used to hold mirrors to see 
behind us, so long and loved. 
All of it is lost, so it could be written now. 
Perhaps I retrace 
instead of improvise, curve a pen with inherited hands. They could have read this, too. 
Knelt down in borrowed knees, rustling fabric they know how to weave like I know how to write this. 
What hands can do passed on, like so many eyes we open to each other. Enfolded into kin patterned hands, these halls still stand, cut down in their prime, for 
this silence is also music.