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Born Old

This city, fashioned from cinders
of stars that fell when they became too tired
to fly, was born old. She rises early,
sits at the mirror for hours covering every blemish
with layers of forgetfulness before
she steps out on a street crowded
with people too busy to notice, thick
with clouds of obsession that are hard
to swallow and make the air
heavy as water in all weather. She catches
sight of herself in a window on the street, sees
cinders and a sparkle of stardust
where damp memory has worn forgetfulness away.