Paradise is burning,
is setting one's self
ablaze.
Is a poem that you
can walk away from, and know
will stand on its own.
Is a lover's spine, curved
like an archway in Venice,
facing a canal,
and across it, a door
painted a shade
of peeling blue.
There is a little girl,
with bubbles.
She dangles
her feet in the water.
The gondolas
whisper past.
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