There is no poetry in this
only a winter of listening
where boxes are packed
stacked
with folded-over flaps
no tape
it is a farce
these things inside
will escape
sit at my lap
staring patiently
silently
as hungry lost kittens do
most of the world is
lonely corners
I sit
on the smoker's bench
entertaining
an old imagining
you pull into
the lot
I can see your eyes
walk faster
spring shoves
with a cool edge
past and through
me
this goes with it
there is now only
the smell
of summer approaching
not you
not
you
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