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Leaves like tiny cymbals
clasp against the ground,

colors spinning downward
like a punctured helicopter.

The tennis court is brighter
than the ream of glow-in-the-

dark paper I use to write my
secrets. The sharp whisper

of the kettle can be heard
from down the hall at all

hours of the night. When
I lay down my brave body,

I spin these things above
me, and play them like a harp.