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Sunday Afternoon

ISSUE:  Winter 1984
You’ve aged, as a woman
who’s known grief
by other names than mine.
The eyes water for scientific reasons:
memories are fluid, and as such need
water to get where they’re going.
For that reason,
there will always be the right amount
of sadness, and boats.
Take the rowboat for example.
After coffee and croissants,
it was inevitable
your bathrobe would lie open,
a little to one side. You point out,
perhaps, a bird circling until
the radius of turning lengthens,
and you disappear. Because
your secrets have become mine
without you, I know
you’re still asking for miracles.
Take the quail for example.
The few remaining are so well hidden,
should they become metaphors
for happiness, they’d be crippled
by their own beauty.


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