All morning she did
the things she loved:
Stole poetry from moths
asleep on marble graves.
Felt catholic without church,
longed for cold rain.
Waited, leaning into her latte
with black eyes. Tried writing
delicate, infinite numbers
as they gathered in droplets
outside the city limits,
like audacious prayers
tried to explain lately
why flowers in Greece
blossom,
tenaciously.
She waited.
The rains came.
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