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Need No Doors

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Ghosts need no doors, they remember the way
with the scent of old bones clinging to the sod
when it’s peach picking time. The dead—
They don’t crowd me blue. It’s the living
who press their palms against the roots
of the tree. Counting rings, counting breaths,
counting how long it takes for a branch to forget
the weight of a swinging body. When its peach
picking time in Georgia and the ghosts come home
whispering: you left the light on for us. 

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