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Lupin dreams on the bed.
She is swimming beyond misty veils,
finding her way back to my ancestors.
I haven’t started laundry or dusted.
Instead, I’ve read awful news and
visited the Lake on YouTube; thankfully
she is swaying, her waves shining-alive.
I walk room-to-room,
searching for possessions to give away.
Cold weather kicks on the heater;
birdsong is muted.
Apparitions of journal pages