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ISSUE:  Winter 1993

Your scar is like a trumpet vine
and by day I am the full sun
pouring over it. At night
I am the eager moon
drawing you up and toward me.
The fragrance you carried with you

in a sachet in your pocket from Hawaii
stays next to me in my writing
room, close to my pen and sweet
yellow paper. It covers the time I have
between hearing your voice
on the phone or at the door,
it nurtures as the pills you swallow
after each meal keep the kidney
well. Life is all

we talk about. I never ask
how long it will last or do you
know who gave you this gift,
but I see a soul sparkling
in the dark among the stars
and feel the merging of paths,
the strength of the ways
we are all attached.


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