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You arrive like the holiday season, as if
announcing your own delicate birth.
As if you’ve just returned from the Matterhorn,
even more vital and rugged
having clawed your way through frozen
architecture
to emerge strong above the clouds.

As if the mountain or the stream below
had charged your heart —
so that now, when you open your mouth, even by accident,
your lips are full of brand new advice
and your palms playful in passion.

And when the sunlight catches your body
you light up like a great glass works;
full of Aztec pots
and Zephyr candlesticks,
and pieces of Matterhorn.

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