When the poet discovered Anne,
he had a razor blade
draped delicately over the blue
rivers running back to his heart
in steady
P ul se s.
Anne is not just words,
but perspicacious ideas
thoughts he thought were his, the details
sketched in
early morning dreams that
he believed were singular and unique.
He sits with her in the dark
just a glimmer of steel and those whispers
of déjà vu.
He thinks perhaps she is
his sister.
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