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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 40


You open this jar the way each raindrop
breaks apart mid-air, stops telling time
when struck by another, head to head

as streams ̶ your hands stay wet
let you gather the hours that are not
the bottom stones mourners use

for water though this lid is still circling
where you listen for those nights
on the way back as the puddles

water makes when trying to breathe
into a place on its own and empty handed
the glass shatters all at once.