Poetry Post #5 : Forty-Five Pearls

If you let me, I’d like to clutch your forty-five pearls.
A flawed, blinding foreignness
and if it’s possible—
the descendant of Emily Dickinson.

In the entrails of the Aokigahara forest,
Death is not a forty-five letter word
and I can’t find the extra birthday candles
because they don’t exist.

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