That there

be things uninhabited, if only in my mind
uninhabited. A promenade of azaleas
in front of my house, not what they look like
or what I remember running
through them, but a refusal. A pool hallucinates
light unto the fence and some mail spins
away. I would have to be someone
intensely afraid, the bitterest one
walking across the lawn. And the moon
I was a girl looking at, be it resistant
and white.  That my asking does not drive
me toward things, but I have asked
and it is over.

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