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When this dream turns to dust
I will be sitting alone in a sunlit room
I will think of you only when the air
is just right, like when here, now
it gets quiet, like so,
before the tornado rips through
bedsheets and grassy lawns. I should
become the storm now, so my
lightning can clear the air
and my waters can heal the land.
Then I could make thunder. I could
kill you. I could shatter glass
and tear down trees with my fingers.
In December I could smother
the landscape with white.