Sunday, January 11, 2009


i'm done, she said, working for other people.
and there was left, a little shape beneath the moon.

running with scissors they did one time, just to prove it, i remember.
i went back to that place, briefly.

as a wanderer its easy to become comfortable.
i suppose, well now.  we were lucky to share that bed.

she brought me sunflowers, like the poem.
they hang drearily now. 
because i can't take care of things that will die anyway.

how did we ever find each other?  i said.
a miracle.  he said.
and that was that.

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