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being in love in brooklyn
drinking beer in bathtubs
atami, sequoia, ko samui
string lights in little italy
cigarettes behind the houses
between the dumpsters
in his big white buick
with blue upholstery
pacing around the kitchen
in the morning
before the sun has risen
in the evening
after everyone else
has gone to bed
a convention for flowers
the green and fresh smell
flytraps and orchids
fascinations of innocence
The sun is gone again. It has become a lonely silver disc that rolls around the hills. No more squinting at the puncture in the sky that lets heaven's light out. This is a time for contemplation. Ours is an age of ink and leather. Spring is a hand releasing the choked heart's throat from its grasp. Winter is a lacy glove of despair and muffled fury.
Whatever order puts things in their places has given us the ability to share. Are you jealously guarding your spirit against something dark? Are you the stubborn dog? The skeptical cow? Maybe you're the manger itself. You lack the rigidity of the bone. I'll look for you in the telling of your story.
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