Mary Oliver

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As I was reading
the work of another poet
I thought, ‘I could have written that.’

But I couldn’t,
it was hers, not mine,
it was she who burgled my house
not I who burgled hers,
it was she who left her prints
on the light switch,
her feet light on the stairs,
her hand on the door
entering the room where
I was quietly reading,
it was her voice whispering in my ear
and her tears in the words she wrote
mingling with mine as I read them.

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