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You are either. Sleep walking or vanishing.
Fantastic things happen.
Make some pies. Put them in some cakes. Bake it. Frost it.
You can
and you will.
Name the person you love.
Arbitrary.
Pull on her shirt and say, You’re tall I love you.
Now
walk away.
And she is this to you.
Wander the streets smiling to yourself and others.
Imagine her while ironing.
We have just begun nearly new.
Hardly.
They will name but
not namely.
Because after all
this is what happens
next.
Her head becomes
a rock for you
to drown in the bay.
These are this.
A holiday crockpot.
A foam dreidel.
Cable cars come every nine minutes.
Let them assign.
Private moments
in public places.
This.
Why we huddle in front of technology. At the base of a 12 foot tall Saint Francis
Sugar Tree.
Why we meet at the preschool gates
to carpool.
An evening
Chanukkah
Extravaganza
Rock
Shabbat.
Say!
Dear Santa.
This is how we remain.
As
some of the muscle
of those. Who lived.
With.
The possibility
or
under the delusion
that the world
is infinite
and we
are permanent.
After all.
This is.
A love.
Poem.
As in.
We wonder how a soul
might
taste.
 


Julia Tranchina is a writer, poet, and municipal employee; who has recently been named a 2016 Lambda Literary Fellow. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in places like The Rusty Toque, Bone Bouquet, Vinyl, Permafrost and Juked. She was born, raised, and lives still, in San Jose, California (before it was never cool) with her wife and four-year-old twins.To find more of her work, please visit clodhopper.com. 

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