Thus spoke Pinocchio.

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Thus spoke Pinocchio:

I believe my myriad leaves

became words, each poised

to find a truth

as quickly lost as the green shoot

plummeting into the universe

constructed from my new mind.

My hands touched objects,

made them more real

than a tree’s leaf ever will.

Some nights I remember

branches rubbing like skin

against the window pane.

Movement is the greatest joy,

when lonely it allows me

to find a new landscape;

new space for the words

falling as easily as amber leaves

in autumn’s forgetful rain.