Jo Morris

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Music falls from your back pockets.
A chord trail saltates in your wake.
You are laddered on the garage wall
but beyond that now.
You see the exponential curve
and wonder where you put your crampons.
You have the skull red bird and the eternity code.
You dream of a son called Atticus.
You find the sadness of oranges.
There are ghosts in your mouth.
You move from minor to major.
The city puts its arms around your shoulders.
Through her, I see you refracted.
As the light shifts, you make new patterns.
Your beard might house birds, or keys, or the sun.
It will meet your father's in old photographs.

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