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Lupa

The moon is racing me -
She leaves white, slender paw prints
On dark, sleek train tracks
In her wake.
She gorges the
Alleys and valleys
With her full, pale gaze.
 
The moon is speaking in rhyme
With the street lamps -
They leave a messy shade
Of copper and ivory.
But truthfully I think she holds
Her head higher than we could
Ever imagine.

October, 2015

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