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--- C O R E Y   M E S L E R

  I wrote a letter to myself.
  I mailed it years
  ago from the city where 
  you and I coincided. 
  I still await it, here in the
  new place, where the
  walls are so white you’d swear
  you’ve gone blind. 
  Outside I hear the mooing of
  doves. The sun sets
  like a table of china. And I speak
  your name softly 
  to the dust on the encyclopedia. 

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