wrapped in mema’s quilt
running fingers across
straight hard edge of marble
from kitchen to couch, from
couch to Christmas
lifting with your knees
your
years and
depositing gingerly
inside square bed
it’s still light, people are
out playing people games,
with dogs and trees and
traffic lights, galore!
but we are here, you and
i, pointing at the browning
fruit on the nightstand
and howling like we have
it all figured out.
Poetry
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