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Cambria, Late Spring

ISSUE:  Winter 2013

The last time you were beside me
it was April.
I knew it was over
but my body was equivocal.
My body was a boat
for your staggering;
my heart, a stone.
Guilt moved through me
like a sharp red rope.

Then the dream of the cypress
splitting in two.
Then the trembling sonata
moving through the promise
of minor to major
then changing again
from the son to the man.
Then a vision of the future
without your hands.

When the act was over
I heard you call out
like a sparrow in the cold dawn
to know the enemy.


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