You moved clippings of your childhood spider plant
with us in a Ziploc half-filled with tap water

so we could grow something once rooted in the cool
valleys of Blacksburg in our new

Houston duplex . . .

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You visit me with your pockets filled with swampwater, the sunflowers
husked and unshaved—an anniversary bouquet
of faces which rise, with you and the temperature,

to strangers . . .

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