In the nineteen-fifties
Baby, you were your own TV
under square light fixtures
and iceberg eyes
and the molten drip of your thoughts.
The wings of dawn
stole the lightening
from no one’s little girl.
So you rowed a boat
to a place of forgotten fires
where you could consume
the most of what is least.
Come and stay with me
and remind yourself
of constellations and devotion.
-R. Bremner
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