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his cologne on
my wool jacket
The
moon, dim and
fat, reigns in a sky
bleeding brine. I'm
the rebound
girl again,
bipolar as a flat line;
he's trading stocks
and vagabonds
a city block away.
I'm
a paintable
nativity scene
raked under
a month of leaves;
flattened
autumns
and soggy
buttergolds
that gutter
layer by layer
in small
streams of runoff.
April air
takes another puff
of four-four time and
drags it through a straw
from
here to there
from here to there.
On the corner, crosswalk rubble
scatters
like treasure birds
taking flight
as I burrow my
face into the crook
of a sleeve
of my red jacket.
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