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Eyelash to its lid, lid to its crease — all of it feels ice-bound.

Water, like silk, falls from her eye:
tear-wet threads, long as the wait for dreams and sticking soft
Fragile as unbound feet.

Pearls in a hand
have the quality of transforming that hand —
Until the fingers themselves become moon-hung orchards

Where children sleep,
and dream wild jasmine into their hair.