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I Used to Love Winter


ISSUE:  Summer 2009

In the past I used to bow to winter respectfully,
and listen to my body. Rain, rain, like a shameless love
letter flowing from the lewd heaven.
Winter. A calling. A hungry echo to embrace women.
An air seen from afar atop a mare
who carries the clouds white, white. I used to love
winter, I used to walk to my rendezvous happily
and playfully in the water-wet space, my young
woman used to dry my short hair with long hair
she nourished amid wheat and chestnut. Singing
wasn’t enough for her, so she’d add: Winter and I love you,
stay with us! She used to warm my chest over
a doe’s hot twins. And I used to love
winter, I used to listen to it by the drop.
Rain, rain like a calling paraded to the lover:
Pour yourself over my body! … There used to be,
in winter, no crying that tells of life’s end.
It was the beginning, it was hope. So what
will I do, while my age is falling like hair,
what will I do this winter?

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