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My face is just a lake
of burning water
whose dystopic lakebed
yearns to be a field of grain
or of flowers.
But tonight, rain pours,
sweet as almond oil
on burnt cheeks.
Then whistling birds
and tingling stars
sing to the air
with which morning will stroke…my face,
still cool
from green dreams,
in a lakebed.
oh lucky you! Thank you Deborah for sharing your poetry.