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Early or Late
February, 2019

Writing a poem is like

throwing off the blanket at night

when my body turns with relief

in the cool air and

at last I can breathe.


Sometimes you fell asleep

on top of me, a heavy cover,

our skin moist and sticky.

Early or late I wanted

to throw off your weight,

turn my body in the bed

and embrace the white wall.


Now that you’re gone

I can say that with you

love made a poem

like a warm blanket when

spring was already

underway, precious but late.

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